Trailmarkers
by Sarcymar
Summary: A spin off from "The Iron Box", which elaborates on the conflict between Heath and Warden Risley, and takes it forward as Heath faces the consequences of what he had to do to escape and protect his brothers. Weaves in Heath's past experiences as a POW with Bentell (and an evil predecessor). Includes brief AU of how Heath and the family handle Bentell's reappearance in 1X13.
1. chapter 1

_Western Nevada, June 1874_

Nick watched over Heath like a worried mother during the bumpy carriage ride back to the prison camp. It was hot, and none of them had had any decent food or water since they started work a few hours before dawn. Heath had been running a fever since early morning and was clearly looking weaker and moving more slowly as the day wore on. Despite their best efforts, there'd really been no way to get any of his injuries clean. The charred burn on his right leg had become red, swollen, and angry. His back didn't look quite as bad, being not so much in the muck during the work day, but the physical labor kept the wounds open and weeping, growing red and covered with a layer of road dirt.

Heath winced as the cart jostled and caused his shirt to slide over the raw skin of his back. The burn that covered his right knee was festering, with a constant smoldering pain that flared alarmingly with any contact or movement. He felt dizzy and a bit sick to his stomach. He had to work to stay focused on the present. Memories pressed in on him that he had managed to keep out of his way on a short leash for many years. They cut loose yesterday, the moment the guards had lashed his wrists to that whipping post. His sleep last night had been full of nightmares and pain. He felt the memories now circling him like feral dogs, snapping and snarling, slavering in anticipation of his helplessness.

Heath had come to manhood in a place even worse than this camp, but it was cut from the same hellish cloth, and he knew the smell and the feel of it all too well. He should've known better than to mouth off to Captain Risely in front of his men, and call him out on his self-righteous delusions. _Stupid_. He had been tired, and in pain from his leg, not to mention worried that the burn hadn't been tended and was rapidly looking worse. Still, knowing why he had gone and put himself in the line of fire didn't make it any less stupid.

The stupidity became obvious when no fewer than four armed guards hustled him outside and strung him up on the scaffold in the prison yard. He heard Nick shout his name, and was grateful to the two inmates that held Nick back and got him to be quiet. _Didn't need both of us being stupid right then,_ Heath thought. _I was plenty stupid enough for both of us._

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head, forcing himself into the present moment. _This is reality, there is my brother, we're in this together, just focus and we'll find a way out._ He met Nick's eyes, saw the worry there. He gave him a smile and swore to himself that he was gonna find a way out of this before they could hurt his big brother the way he'd been hurt in the past.

 _Carterson Confederate prisoner-of-war camp, New Mexico, October 1864_

"What's he done?"

"Caught him stealing eggs from the main house."

"Stealing. Again. You seem pretty damn skinny for a Yankee sewer rat who's been caught - for a third time now - stealing food from me and my staff. Why is that, boy?"

The prison camp commander was a lean, dark-haired Confederate officer named Jean Linceul. He spoke with a smooth, educated Louisiana accent. Linceul stepped from behind his desk and approached his prisoner, studying him with growing interest. He was a kid, fifteen or sixteen at most, probably blonde under the dirt and grime that covered his hair. He was painfully thin from starvation.

Linceul knew this soldier was a scout and a sniper, part of a Union sharpshooter unit that had been betrayed into capture and incarcerated a few months ago. That capture had been a rare coup for the Texas Confederate command. This unit had been deployed to devasting effect by the Union Army across the Trans-Mississippi Theater, since they had survived the battle at Chickamauga over a year ago. This soldier must have been maybe 14 during that carnage. Linceul assumed the boy had lied about his age to enlist in the first place, but he must have been a damn good soldier to have been assigned to that unit, and survived until now.

Heath saw no point in using what little energy he had to answer the commander's question. His silence was rewarded with a blow from a rifle stock that sent him to his knees.

"I said, why is that, boy? Are you stealing for someone else? Who might that be, and why? I'd be happy to keep you fed, boy, if you could share a little information in return."

He got no response. "If not, well, I'll just beat it out of you." He smiled pleasantly. "That will be a pleasure for me. You, I'm afraid, will not benefit in that scenario."

Heath met his eyes then, and saw that yes, this would be a pleasure for Linceul. He also saw that it was inevitable. Heath could no more collude with the officer to betray his unit, than could the officer let him go unpunished.

"Well, Yankee boy? Do we have a deal? What's your choice?"

 _No choice._ Heath shook his head, not trusting his voice as fear tightened in his chest. He was pulled to his feet, and steered roughly out of the command tent and into the main courtyard of the compound. He did not struggle as the soldiers pulled off his shirt and began tying his wrists to a sturdy wooden scaffold at the edge of the yard. In peacetime the scaffold had been intended as a drying rack for a vast herb garden. This had been a lovely, fertile hacienda in its prime. That was before it was overrun by the Confederate Army, and its courtyards converted to a nightmarish, overcrowded death camp for captured Union soldiers.

Heath was trying to remain stoic, but he was young, and he was shaken by what he had seen in the commander's eyes. He thought of his mother, so beautiful, and warm, and gentle, and he longed to be away from here and back home in California. He heard the officer walk up very close behind him, but he was tied so tightly to the rack that Heath could not turn his head to look. He felt warm breath on his neck, and the Commander whispered by his ear, "I hope you don't break too quickly, Yankee. Though if you do, I'll just move on to your friends. Who are you protecting?"

Heath squeezed his eyes closed, but a few tears escaped. The commander reached to touch one, then licked his finger. "Mmm. Let's get started, shall we?"


	2. chapter 2

_Wellington Station Prison Camp, Nevada_ _, June 1874_

The wagon bumped to a halt in the prison yard, raising a lazy cloud of dust in the windless air. Nick hopped out of the cart ahead of him, supporting some of Heath's weight as he concentrated on climbing down without putting too much pressure on his right leg. The descent made him dizzy and slightly off-balance. As he leaned back against the tailgate to steady himself, he smelled a familiar scent of cigars and soap that warmed his heart.

"Jarrod!" Surprise and relief in Nick's voice. "Heath's very sick, Jarrod."

"What happened?" Heath felt Jarrod's hands on his arm, at his back, gentle but possessive, proprietary, assessing. Drooped with fatigue as he was, he still felt a swell of pride and thanks that he was given such brothers, that they cared for him as they did. He smiled, looked up into blue eyes the same color as his.

"Well, the burned leg, and no doctor to attend it. They won't give him any good food to get his strength back. And - they whipped him."

Heath was still just enjoying the presence of his older - and much cleaner - brother when he looked past Jarrod's shoulder to see Captain Risley standing rigidly on the porch. He was staring at the three of them with an intensity that Heath could practically feel on his skin. Heath had survived since childhood because of a well-developed awareness of danger, and a willingness and ability to act on that sense. His assessment now told him that the game had changed. The threat had just increased exponentially with the arrival of Jarrod.

Jarrod was talking, telling Nick not to antagonize Risley, telling Heath to hang in there and he'd be back with the judge. Heath reached up, interrupting his brother by gripping the front of his shirt with a force that belied his weakened state.

"Jarrod, listen, I need to say this quick because they're not going to give us much time, and I want both of you to hear. "

They looked at him in some surprise. Heath was typically a man of few words - even fewer if he was tired or stressed.

"Now that you're here, there's no way Risley can let Nick and I out of here alive, far as I can tell. Jarrod, you're going to have to ride like the wind, and watch your back, because even the sheriff could try to take you out before you make it to the judge. But you're gonna have to go -", as Jarrod began to protest leaving them there in danger, "cause getting the judge here is still the only end game I see."

If Risley were just a regular criminal, running a slave labor operation, Heath figured they'd have no chance. Risley would kill them both as soon as Jarrod was gone, using some thin pretext - lock them in a bunkhouse and burn it down, or take them outside the fence and shoot them trying to "escape". He'd most likely send a shooter out of camp right now, ahead of Jarrod, to take him out before he even got to the main road.

But this guy - Heath was pretty sure he kept men in this camp to feed a need for something other than just money. He could see it laid out in front of him like a chess board, with Risley as the enemy Queen. He was powerful, and had a long reach on his turf, but he was not sane. He seemed more driven to control the board and deliver punishment, than to end the game efficiently with the death of the King - and he needed it all to seem _righteous_. This made him dangerous, but it also created an opening for counterattack.

Heath figured in this game, Nick was the King to be protected. If he fell, it would be game over. To keep him safe, Nick would have to be prevented from making any moves that would leave him open him to attack. That was going to be a problem. Nick was not of a temperament to be the protected King, no matter how essential that role was right now.

Jarrod would have to be the Rook, the long straight arm of the law, the one to corner and defeat the enemy. With Jarrod's arrival ( _and thanks to my big mouth_ , Heath thought), there was no more option to ride it out without drawing more attention to themselves. And so it would be Heath's task to draw the attack to himself, away from the King, and hope to keep himself alive until Jarrod could return and end the game. Heath was ready for his part to end up a sacrifice move, if that's what it took to get Nick out of here, but it certainly wasn't his plan for it to turn out that way. His plan was to take whatever Risley had and spit it back at him, and then head home with his brothers. Heath was pretty sure he knew what Risely's next move would be.

Heath said, "Nick, here's what I see. Risley is going to use me to get you to step out of line. Do not give him that. You understand? If you do, he will kill you, and then I'm dead anyway. So no matter what he does to me, _you stand down_. You follow my lead. You are going to have to go against every instinct you have, but you promise me. Promise me, Nick."

"Counselor, I'm afraid your time is up!" Risley began walking in their direction.

"Nick. _Promise me_."

Nick opened his mouth to argue, to protest, but something in Heath's demeanor gave him pause. He looked, questioning, at Jarrod. Jarrod hesitated, but then nodded. "God help us, but I think Heath is right. You don't want to sit on your hands any more than I want to ride out of here without taking you both with me. But we're both gonna have to play our part to get you safely home." Jarrod studied his brothers intently, his mind racing, looking for alternatives, his anxiety now triple what it was when he arrived. He trusted Heath's instincts, knowing his younger brother had far more experience than he in navigating this kind of hell. He saw no other option. He was going to have to ride to Brazos like the devil was after him. "Whatever you do, Nick, don't antagonize Risley."

"Well, I'm going to have to stop breathing to accomplish that."

"Counselor, I'm afraid I must insist. Peterson, assemble the men for inspection. Oh, except for 597, you come with me. I am going to take you over to the doctor myself to get your injury attended to. I hope my presence will prompt the doctor to act a bit more professionally."

 _Here it starts_ , thought Heath. _The Captain needs to make it all look proper. Hell, he may even believe it._ He turned to Risley.

"Permission to speak, Captain?"

"Granted."

"I don't think you need to trouble the doctor, sir, I can just clean up in the bunk after inspection."

"You will follow my orders, 597. Fall out and proceed to the infirmary. Harris, escort us please."

The guard leveled his rifle at Heath and gestured with it toward the infirmary. Heath swallowed in a dry throat, and with a last look at Nick and Jarrod, began limping toward the infirmary. Jarrod retrieved his pistol and his horse and mounted up.

"Risley."

"Yes, Counselor?"

"I'll be back - with the Circuit Judge."

The Captain made no answer, but with a grim smile, followed Heath to the infirmary.


	3. chapter 3

_Carterson Prison, New_ _Mexico, 1864_

Heath was no stranger to pain or injury in his 15 years. Aside from the full range of cuts, bruises, sprains and fractures that came with a life spent working in mines and on horseback, for just as long he'd been fending for himself as a poor, fatherless kid in an often violent world. That world included his Uncle Matt, who would find a reason to beat the tar out of him on every occasion he was able to corner Heath alone. Heath's mother did all she could to keep Heath out of her brother's sights, but Strawberry was a small town, and Heath was a working boy who couldn't afford to stay hidden at home.

That Matt's vicious abuse was driven by rage at his own weakness and failures was obvious to Heath even as a small boy. The knowledge helped Heath to keep his heart safe, all the while hiding when he could, ducking when he had to, and curling up to try to protect himself the times Matt would get him down to the floor.

Heath was a boy who could usually see the humanity in others, even among the mean bosses, street bullies, and saloon criminals of his world. This made things more difficult for him in some ways, as there were plenty of situations made easier by thinking them black and white and moving on without questions or regrets. For all the roughness of his life, though, Heath could find allies and friends in unlikely places, and he had a deep well of compassion and patience that already had brought him through many a dry spell.

This Confederate camp commander who had him now, though, was unpredictable, a danger Heath did not yet know how to read. Linceul seemed to cultivate fear and pain in the camp like some sort of malign harvest upon which to feed. He encouraged conflict, and had a demonic ability to sniff out the fault lines of the people around him. Thus he had risen in the Confederate ranks to a position of minor power. He was feared, universally disliked, and avoided by those who could stay out of his way.

Heath had watched Linceul over the months since he'd been captured, but he still didn't have a feel for what drove him. He had thought a lot about it, especially when he'd tended to his fellow soldiers who had gotten in the commander's sights. They seemed as traumatized mentally as they were physically.

Those prisoners who were brought before Linceul soon learned that they had little with which to bargain. The commander had endless patience and ingenuity in his physical and mental abuse of his prisoners. Whether or not Linceul got the information or cooperation he sought seemed of secondary importance, though he always did eventually. What Heath sensed - but couldn't quite yet believe - was that the punishment was for Linceul the end in itself.

Finding that hungry gaze now centered on him, Heath had the disturbing feeling that Linceul was a wind-whistling, black, empty mineshaft. Unfathomable. For years afterward Heath would wake up in cold sweats having dreamed he was trapped in that black pit, alone.


	4. chapter 4

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

"Thank you, Harris, you can wait outside. I'll accompany 597."

Heath preceded the Captain into the stuffy, shuttered infirmary. He had no idea what the Captain had in mind, but he was certain it was nothing good. The doctor was not in bed this time, but he was just as inebriated, this time snoring in a chair at the small writing table.

As Heath approached the doctor, thinking to rouse him and get him to bed, Risley suddenly shoved Heath hard across the room. Unable to take his full weight on his right leg, he fell over a workbench and crashed into a high cupboard full of medical supplies, bringing the whole thing down on top of himself.

As he struggled to get out from under, he saw Risley turn to the drunken doctor and begin methodically beating him with the truncheon he carried in his hand. In moments the doctor was on the floor bleeding from his mouth and nose. Risley picked up a table knife and approached the doctor.

"Stop! Stop, Risley, what are you doing…?" Heath staggered to his feet.

"I'm protecting this doctor from your brutal attack, 597. But I may not be in time to stop you from murdering him."

"No, don't hurt him, please, Captain -" Heath lunged to stop the knife from descending into the doctor's unconscious body, knowing it was what Risley wanted him to do, but seeing no alternative. Even as he reached to wrestle the knife from the Captain's hand, he heard him calling out, "Harris! Peterson! Help!"

Heath let the knife fall and tended to the doctor, turning him gently to his side and cleaning some spit and blood and broken teeth out of his mouth so he wouldn't choke on them. And then he waited for what came next, as the boots thundered onto the porch. The mad queen had him cornered. _I'm in for it now,_ Heath thought, _but if I can just buy us enough time..._

Hands grabbed his arms, yanking him to his feet and away from the doctor. He didn't resist, but a rifle butt to his ribs and then another one to his knee removed that option completely. He fell to his hands and knees on the filthy floorboards, gasping for air. _What now? More boots in the ribs? No,_ thought Heath. _No, he'll need something more public._

"This is unacceptable, 597. I am going to make an example of you for the other men."

 _Of course you are,_ thought Heath.

"Get him up. Get him out of here. I want him punished."


	5. chapter 5

_Carterson Prison, October 1864_

The whip Linceul was using on his back hurt like nothing else Heath had ever experienced. After a few strokes, the boy was weeping, though silently. A few more and he couldn't bite back a bark of pain with each lash. There would be pauses, and he would pray _please, no more, please, no more_ \- only to have it start up again.

But the whip was not the worst thing. After that first flogging - which, Heath came to learn, was relatively gentle - the Commander just left him tied to the rack through the heat of the day and then well into the night.

For the first few hours, Heath suffered mainly from the scorching heat and thirst, the pain in his back, and a feeling of shame at being strung up as a display while the camp moved through the day around him. He was completely ignored by guards and prisoners alike. Linceul had whispered sweetly to him before he walked away, trailing his fingers over Heath's bloodied shoulders. "See, Yankee boy. They will not even look at you, your compadres. They have erased you from their minds. They believe you have betrayed them. They know you will. And so they have left you to me."


	6. chapter 6

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

The sunlight outside was blinding after the dimness of the infirmary. The prisoners were still lined up in the midday heat, watching the goings-on, having heard the crashing and the Captain's call for help. Heath was limping badly now. He had a guard on each arm and one ahead holding the shackles locked to his wrists. Peterson walked grimly behind him with a rifle aimed at his spine. The memory-dogs yipped excitedly around him, eager to get their teeth into him as they approached the scaffold in the prison yard.

 _I can't do this, not again, I can't_

 _Jarrod - please hurry - I don't think I can do this again_

Taking a deep shaky breath, Heath struggled to damp down the panic, thinking, _this part is on Nick. I was stupid enough to get myself in this situation, I've gotta help him get through it. If he loses it, we're all dead._ He lifted his head, blinking away sweat.

Looking up at the rack with its two metal rings, he felt his guards tighten their grip on his arms. He thought this might be a good time to use some of that bottled-up panic energy. Drag out the drama some. Anything to give Jarrod more time to gallop himself back here with the judge.

He searched the line of prisoners and easily spotted his big brother, steaming and barely keeping himself in line, practically pawing the ground like a raging bull. That image struck Heath as funny. When he caught Nick's eye he used that to give him a convincing half smile and a wink.

Then, planting his feet on the dry sandy ground for some traction, he twisted and lunged backward, trying to break free of the guards on either side. He succeeded in pushing them off balance, but was unable to keep his own feet under him and fell heavily. He hissed with the pain as the gritty soil ground into his lacerated back. The guards were far quicker than he to recover, and were already advancing on him as he tried to regain his feet and scramble backward away from the scaffold. He heard movement behind him, and felt himself clamped in a python-like headlock that slowly, immutably, squeezed all resistance away. Heath pawed uselessly at the arm around his neck. He heard Peterson, close to his ear, whispering "That's quite enough of _that_ , now, boy…" The chokehold got tighter, the world went gray, and he sank to his knees.

As his vision cleared, he found himself staring at the ground, still firmly in Peterson's grip, but at least able to breathe and think. A pair of highly polished boots came into his field of vision, accompanied by the business end of a bull whip. Heath felt his muscles start to shiver involuntarily

 _I can't do this not again please_

and he tried to swallow in a throat that felt as dry as old wool.

"Shall we proceed with your punishment, 597? We need to complete this part before the heat of the day is lost, so we can make full use of the iron box as well."

 _Iron box_? Heath wondered, vaguely.

"Get that filthy shirt off of him and get him up." Peterson pulled Heath to his feet so the Captain could look into his face. "It is critical that we make a clear example of you for the prisoners. We cannot tolerate even the smallest aggression toward our camp physicians."

Heath shook his head trying to clear it, squinting to get his eyes to focus on the captain as he spoke. Was he joking? Was he acting out a deliberate falsehood for his witnesses to justify his torture? Or was he just crazy? Heath reminded himself that he had been in places like this camp before, had seen his life held in the hands of men like Risley. His cruelty created this nightmare, but his insanity might hold a weakness they could use.

Heath was pretty sure Risley was insane, in fact, he was counting on it to buy them time. The Captain seemed completely disconnected from reality. Or rather, he seemed completely immersed in the reality he had constructed. Heath wondered if they could change the story in the Captain's head into something more to the brothers' advantage. He wished that he wasn't so sick, that he had time to think it through, but things were moving way too quickly in a very bad direction.

He sought out Nick's eyes again. _Stand down_ , he mouthed silently, as Peterson efficiently removed what was left of his work shirt and tossed it aside. Nick scowled, snorted - then he nodded, crossing his arms across his chest and taking a step back, putting on a face of angry impatience. Heath felt a small sense of relief. It was on Nick now to carry the bluff. Heath just needed to hang in and stay focused enough to play this through - he hoped without having to make a sacrifice of himself.


	7. chapter 7

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

 _Focus_.

 _Focus_.

Heath used the word like a mallet, hammering down the screaming panic that wanted to burst out of his chest. His breathing was too fast. He tried to slow it down, and grunted from the pain in his back as the guards pulled his arms upward.

 _Focus_.

He gripped the metal rings in his hands, pulling to take some of the weight off the ligature already cutting into his wrists.

The captain now watched every move on Heath's face, enjoying the evident fear that broke through his stoic demeanor. He waited as the guards secured him to the scaffold, a slow smile on his lips as he prepared to punish this arrogant boy who had called him a failure and a reject. Oh yes, and punish the big brother as well, rub his nose in little brother's pain and suffering. He couldn't wait for big brother to step out of line. He glanced over to Nick, and was disconcerted to see him looking bored and annoyed, rather than anguished.

Frowning, Risley brushed that observation away for the moment, and turned his attention back to the younger one. Yesterday he'd let one of the guards do the flogging. But today, he thought, he needed to send a stronger message. It did not escape his notice that Heath's back bore scars that spoke of several past encounters with a whipping post. In what context he received those injuries didn't much interest the Captain. He believed, however, that the experience of injury or trauma in the past did not necessarily inure one to the pain and distress of trauma in the present; in fact, he suspected, it might actually increase one's sensitivity. He was interested in such things. Pacing a distance away from the scaffold, he cracked the whip loudly in the air to get the distance of it, and then he set to his task.

Heath closed his eyes, trying to brace himself, knowing from experience it was impossible.

 _Focus_.

CRACK

 _Please Jarrod, please hurry I can't do this_

CRACK

 _Please_

CRACK

 _Focus. Just last him out. I can stand anything for a little while longer_

The captain, no surprise, was an artist with his bullwhip, as anyone might be who derives their sense of meaning and place in the world from the physical abuse of other human beings. He varied the speed, the rhythm, the placement of his blows. Intermittently he soaked the fall and the knotted popper of the whip in heavily salted water to enhance the effect, as he considered where to strike next.

CRACKCRACK

 _Oh mother help me please stop_

CRACK

CRACK

Suddenly Risley shifted his approach and laid into him with a rhythmic vengeance, crackcrackcrackcrack like the banging of picks deep in the mines, just pain and pain and pain with no beginning and no end

 _Stop please stop please stop god just let me die_

"What are you saying, 597? Did you request permission to speak?"

Heath heard a terrible rasping noise, realizing, as he tried to speak, that it was his own ragged breathing.

 _I'm not gonna make it through this, there's no way I can hold up long enough._

"Permission.…. Sir…"

 _Got to pull him in another direction_.

"Granted."

Heath felt he was burning, in flames inside and out. His throat and lungs were raw and painful. His skin seemed striped with runnels of hot lava that were slowly burning down to his bones. He could feel blood trickling down his arms from his abraded wrists. His vision was blurred with tears and sweat. His muscles shivered convulsively. He was on fire, he was freezing to death.

"Captain, please - let my brother go…"

Heath struggled to get enough breath in to make a sentence. "Please. .. he's a good man, an honest man, he's not like me…"

"What exactly are you saying, 597?"

Heath tried to speak up, but all he could manage was a hoarse whisper. He wondered if he had been screaming, and was distantly bothered that he didn't know.

"You have me, do what you see fit with me, I deserve whatever you decide. But please don't make my brother suffer for my sins. He is not a criminal. This is a good family, and he is their heir. If you harm him there will be terrible consequences for you. But I am his father's bastard son. They will be better off without me. They will accept your judgement of me. Please let him go. They will be grateful to you that you have returned their true son to them ..Please…."

Heath rushed to speak his piece as he felt himself losing consciousness. He stumbled over his words with numb lips, growing dizzy and nauseated until he sagged in his bonds.

"Cut him down."

The guards did so, dumping Heath unceremoniously in the dirt. The change in position brought a not entirely welcome return to consciousness. Heath moaned and lifted himself on his elbows, trying unsuccessfully to move away from the burning pain that seemed to surround him and drag him to the ground with molten wires. The dogs had their teeth in him now. With a hoarse sob, he gave up trying to escape, laid his head in his hands and just tried to breathe.

The captain walked a slow circle around his prostrate prisoner, considering what he had just seen and heard. A bastard son? Yes. Such a good, wealthy family would very likely be happy to rid themselves of such a risk to their reputation. They would join with him, the Captain, praise his taking the necessary measures to root out and punish the blight on their family.

"370. Fall out and attend me."

Nick walked across the yard, keeping his eyes on the Captain. Heath lay in the dirt, bleeding, crying softly in pain with each breath he took. Nick's jaw ached from gritting his teeth to keep from calling out to Heath, and it took all his will not to run to him now and pick him up off the ground. Or maybe kill Risley first, and then get Heath. Either way, Nick was not at all sure he could pull off his part of the play. Nick was full of rage, and if he couldn't hide it, he was going to have to pretend it was something else. Rage at what? At being inconvenienced during his cattle buying trip? Rage at having to be thrown in jail with his bastard, no-account, trouble-making, mongrel half-brother? What Nick had heard of Heath's "confession" had ripped his heart out, and he wasn't sure how long he could wait before he did the same to Risley.

"So this one is a bastard son of your line?"

"Yes," he gritted out.

"And your family has taken him in."

"Tried to, yes, but you can see the difficulty. I prepared and planned this cattle-buying trip for months! Thought I'd bring him along to give the family a break, and look at what it got me."

"Yes, I can certainly see the difficulty. You don't approve of my methods, however."

"Can't say that I do."

"One hopes that exposure to good society would rehabilitate, but in my experience, harsher measures are needed, which a family like yours, I expect, would be reluctant to take. In that sense perhaps it is a good thing you landed here, so that I can do your family that service, Mr Barkley. I will, however, take your objection into consideration."

"Call me Nick."

"Peterson. Put 597 in the box. Let the prisoners watch him cook for a while. Mr Barkley - Nick - please come to my office so we can make arrangements before your brother the attorney returns."

Nick had to avert his eyes as the guards pulled his near-unconscious brother from the ground. Heath lifted his head, managed a hoarse "Nick.."

As the two men turned back, Heath took a breath. "Nick, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry I got you into this..." He focused intently on Nick, willing him to play his part, wanting him to know he understood, that this was how it had to go.

Nick stared into his brother's blue eyes. He got the message, but he was in a paralysis of how to respond other than to throttle the sanctimonious warden standing beside him. "Hmmph", he managed, "Well. I'm sorry too. I think we'll have to see how the Captain here decides to handle this." Then tearing his eyes away before he lost control, he turned to walk away.

The guards started moving again, toward an ugly metal box not much bigger than a steamer trunk. It had a latched door with a padlock, a few air holes, and the air surrounding it was distorted with the waves of heat radiating from its surface. Understanding now what they intended to do with him, Heath began to struggle in earnest. This contraption was not a form of torture with which he had experience, and he had no desire to learn. The black interior of the box, in fact, terrified him completely, and he began to fight with the sole objective of getting as far away from it as possible.

"No. No. _No_ -" he gritted out, fear giving him a last burst of strength.

Harris, a guard who appreciated any opportunity for gratuitous abuse, kicked him hard in his injured knee, and Heath's resistance immediately collapsed. A few more well-placed blows, and the guards were able to shove him inside and padlock the door, swearing as their fingers burned on the hot metal surface.


	8. chapter 8

_Carterson, New Mexico, October, 1864_

"They have left you to me, boy. You are dead to them." Linceul's whispered voice kept repeating in his mind.

By late afternoon, Heath could no longer feel his hands, and he had developed a bone-deep, aching agony in his arms. He was dizzy from dehydration. He fought to keep standing, but periodically he would faint and his legs would give out. The sudden pull of his weight on his wrists would brutally rouse him with pain, and he'd struggle to get his feet under him again.

Night fell. It was cooler, then became quite cold, as happens in the high desert. Heath clenched his jaw to control the chattering of his teeth. He couldn't really pinpoint what hurt anymore, pain was just in him and around him like an unchanging fact of the universe. He had been losing track of time as the day progressed. Trying to make it through each passing minute, he looked for memories that would comfort. He would try to remember each movement and gesture of his mother as she baked bread and Aunt Rachel taught him to play chess in the warm kitchen while the snow fell outside. He pictured himself coming home to them, Leah coming out into the yard to hug him and hold him tight.

Shivering and half-conscious in the dark, Heath wondered if maybe he was already dead and gone and just didn't know it yet, like a ghost that hadn't figured out yet that his body was finished. Heath began to have waves of panic, trying to keep track of what was real and what was delirium. He began to learn a new thing about himself, that losing control of his mind scared him about as much as anything. No wonder he didn't like getting falling-down drunk like some of his buddies did. Pain became a helpful thing now, keeping him attached to his body and to the present moment.

He was alone and invisible. Maybe Linceul had decided to just leave him here till he died. He had seen how the not knowing, the silence, could drain away a man's sanity. He'd been trapped in a caved mineshaft once, not for too long, but the stretch of not knowing whether someone would even look for him or come get him out was something he'd prefer not to remember. Was he dead now to his men, his fellow soldiers? Had they given up on him? He longed for a look, a gesture, something, _anything_ to let him know he wasn't alone with Linceul. Alone and trapped. Heath could imagine how even being whupped by a big mean uncle might come to seem a comfort, if a person was alone and trapped for a long enough time. Even so, he thought perhaps he'd rather be alone for all of eternity than have Linceul's attention upon him again.


	9. chapter 9

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

Heath was in a haze of pain and heat and metal, trying like hell not to scream, trying to control his breathing. He fixed his gaze on the sunlight through the small air holes in the sides of the box as a visual reminder that the outside world was still there. His leg felt like it was still ablaze in that campfire. He tucked up, resting his head on his knees, trying to keep his back off the searing metal of the box. Each rasping, panting breath of that hot air came out as a hoarse whimper.

 _Nick don't leave me here please_

He urgently searched his mind for something to calm himself, and as a comfort he pictured the first time he ever saw his brother Nick, and the verbal fencing match on the bridge that had ended with them both falling in the river.

 _What I wouldn't give for a fall in that clean, cold river right now._

His eyes burned, and he was pretty sure he'd be crying if his body had any water to spare for tears. His throat was dry and raw, and his lips felt like old leather. He closed his eyes, now trying to pretend he was just in darkness and not closed in by metal walls.

 _Feel like I'm gonna pass out just sitting here. Feel like I'm dyin', to be plain about it. Can't last too long in here, I don't think, not in the shape I'm in._

 _God_ _I'm burning up._

 _I don't_ _want to die in this box._

 _Nick, don't go, don't leave me in here!_

 _I'm_ _trying to hold on_

 _please_

 _I can't breathe in this box please let me out let me out let me out_

Heath bit his arm to keep himself from screaming for Nick to come back.

 _Calm down boy, calm down, you can breathe. Breathe. Think of something good. Just settle down. Nick is still out there, and Jarrod is on his way, they're safe, and they'll come for you, they always come for you. They always come for you. Settle down..._

Heath drifted, his mind caressing the faces and memories of the ones who had given him so much love. He felt the warm touch of his mother Leah's hands as she stroked his hair, when he'd come back home from a long stretch underground. Audra laughing and hugging him after she'd beaten him at pool. Victoria Barkley, the woman who had taken him into her heart and challenged him to be the best man he could be. Her strong small hand on his arm, looking into his eyes, saying, "If you were my son..." _Wanting_ him to be her son.

 _How was I so blessed, that she_ wanted _me?_

 _I would do anything for you, anything, you know that, don't you? Mother, please forgive me, I never wanted to bring you pain, I'm sorry I couldn't get all of us out of this mess and home safe. I'm sorry, please, I don't want to die in here_


	10. chapter 10

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

Nick paced with his arms crossed, hell-bent on maintaining the same gruff, no-nonsense tone he'd use with one of his foremen at the ranch. His hands, hidden from view, were clenched fists, and his muscles were aching from the effort of controlling his rage and anxiety.

Promise _me, Nick_ , Heath had said, _Follow my lead_. Nick had gotten to know his reserved and stoic brother a little bit over the months they'd been together. He knew Heath had created that tussle out in the prison yard as a stalling tactic. Heath wanted him to follow his lead. Problem was, Nick also just saw Heath fighting the guards with everything he had left, trying to stay out of that box. That was no stalling tactic. Nick was pretty damn sure he knew flat-out desperate terror when he saw it.

 _God, where was Jarrod?_

"Captain", Nick said, stopping to look out of the office window at the prison yard and the ugly metal box, "is this necessary? I mean, he hasn't had any water, and that box'll kill him pretty damn quick in this heat. If he's toeing the line like he seems to have a mind to, seems he'd be a better example to the other prisoners out where they can see him. No point whipping a boy like that into line and then just killin' him off."

The warden stopped to consider Nick's words. He had begun to see several potential benefits to the current situation. The arrogant blonde cowboy who had insulted him in front of his men, to have him under his thumb now would help control the whole prison population. And to have a rich family indebted to him for removing their bastard, keeping him locked away, and keeping the whole business quiet - well, that could be very beneficial. So it probably would be best to keep 597 alive, as Mr Barkley suggested.

"I believe you are quite right, Mr Barkley. Thank you for your input. Peterson! Get 597 out of there. Wash him up and get him some water. I want him in the holding cell and in restraints when you're done."


	11. chapter 11

_Weellington Labor Camp, July, 1874_

Heath could hear talking, distant, muffled. He couldn't focus enough to make it out. Breathing took all his concentration, but he was losing the battle to remain awake. He slowly lost his grip on consciousness, and with a last whimper his head fell back against the metal wall of his prison. He felt himself falling, felt a wash of coolness, smiled at the memory of rivers and home.

The guards unlocked the box and awkwardly slid the heavy door aside. They pulled Heath out onto the dirt of the yard, grimacing at the bloody mess the Captain had made of his back and arms. Peterson waved for the stretcher. This man wasn't walking anywhere under his own power, not yet anyway.

"Get me a couple buckets of water."

He could see that if they wanted to keep this prisoner alive, they were going to have to cool him off and get some water into him in short order. He looked down at 597, face down in the dust, barely breathing. _Jeez, he's a mess. He sure got under Captain's skin, right from the git-go. And now what, Captain wants to keep him like some sort of trophy?_

Peterson stuck his hand in the bucket to make sure the water wasn't too cold. That kind of shock would probably kill him right off. "Get him up out of the dirt."

Two guards pulled Heath to his knees, his head hanging. He took a breath and coughed weakly. "Nick…? Is that y..." he rasped, barely audible.

Peterson unceremoniously dumped two buckets of water over Heath's head, rinsing off some of the blood and grime and sweat. Heath groaned, shaking his head slightly, and tried to lick some of the water from his lips. Peterson held a canteen to his mouth, making sure he didn't suck down too much too fast. Then he motioned for the men to put him on the stretcher and bring him down to the holding cell where they could wash him up proper. Heath grimaced as they rolled him on his back, making some effort to move away from the pain, but Peterson easily pushed him back down. "You just lie still, boy, and behave yourself."

Nick watched them carry the body of his brother across the yard toward the holding cell. Seeing some movement, signs of life, he let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and resumed pacing the Captain's office floor. _Hang in there, Heath, Jarrod will get here soon, by tonight for sure. Just hang in there_.


	12. chapter 12

_Carterson Prison, October, 1864_

In the deep chill of the predawn hours, Heath was bound still on the scaffold, drifting in and out of consciousness. He would wake to the terrible pain in his body and weep quietly, sometimes with frustration at his helplessness, sometimes with fear, sometimes with plain old pain and loneliness. Even if he wanted to surrender, he couldn't, because they had just left him here to die.

Out of the darkness stepped a figure who moved in close behind him. A hand stroked his hair, and he heard that smooth southern voice in his ear. "Yankee boy, you must be freezing out here. Let me get you somewhere warm so we can continue our conversation."

Heath thought there was nothing in the world he wanted less than to continue a conversation with Linceul, but he was so cold, and so tired. He didn't resist as Linceul put a warm blanket around him and freed his wrists from the scaffold. He lowered him gently down to the ground. Heath writhed in pain as the numbness of his arms and hands gave way to an excruciating awakening that felt like hammer blows to his bones. Linceul held his shaking shoulders and wrapped the blanket snugly around him, letting the weeping boy curl up against him until the worst of it had passed. When the breathing had slowed to normal, he gave Heath a canteen with some clean water, and rose to stand over him as he drank.

Lying there in that prison yard, for a moment Heath could think of nothing else but how wonderful and miraculous that water tasted going down. Instinctively he tried to recover as much mental and physical strength as he could in that brief respite, for he knew it would be brief.

Linceul stood silently over him. Wasted as he was right now, still Heath knew he was in the hands of an enemy he didn't yet understand and couldn't anticipate. He was afraid, he was hurt, he was far from home, and he felt near empty.

The only thing he knew to hold on to was protecting the men in his unit, who in turn were sheltering a small immigrant family, loyal to the Union, that had taken refuge with them from the Confederate occupation. A mother and three children. That family's warning had probably saved the lives of most of his unit who escaped the initial ambush, but it earned the family a death sentence from the occupying army. Unable to get out of the area, they hid within the hacienda, and were now secreted in a forgotten underground root cellar that was slowly, painfully, being dug into an escape tunnel.

Maybe they had all given him up for lost. But protecting them was going to have to be the trailmarker to get him through, and he prayed he'd have the strength. He fell asleep there on the ground, as the Eastern horizon began to hint at sunrise.


	13. chapter 13

_Wellington Labor Camp, June,1874_

Over the next hours, Peterson was glad to see his prisoner was reviving somewhat. He gave him small amounts of water and broth to drink intermittently as his men proceeded with the task of cleaning up the battered cowboy. He'd at least gotten enough fight back in him that it took several guards to hold him down as they scrubbed his lacerated back and arms and the burn on his leg with soap and water. Cleaning that leg, that was the only time Peterson could remember this prisoner screaming in pain or begging for any kind of mercy, though he bit it back pretty quickly. When he was able to speak, he'd mostly ask if his brother Nick was okay. _He's sure a tough one, this cowboy. Seems kinda a shame to beat him down._

Once they'd finished cleaning him up, they brought Heath to the holding cell. Manacles were placed on his wrists and ankles, and the wrist irons were attached to the stone wall by a length of chain. They left him lying face down on a thin mat on the floor of the cell.

* * *

"Well, Mr. Barkley, you'll be glad to know you are free to go." The Captain briskly signed a few forms and filed them away. "A deputy is bringing your horse and belongings along presently, so you can get on the road." He smiled and offered his hand to shake.

"Go?" Nick tried to cover his intense worry as surprise. The thought of setting one foot outside of the camp without his brother was almost intolerable. _Who knows what this monster will do to Heath if he's left here alone?_

 _But what have I been able to do to protect him being in here?_

Nick considered the possibility that he and Jarrod could better find a way to get Heath out of there from the outside. But leaving him? It went against every feeling Nick had. _Where are you, Jarrod? I really need to talk to you, big brother._

"I'm concerned that my brother Jarrod hasn't made it back yet." Nick temporized. "I'd like to wait for word from him. If he's run into difficulty on the road, if he needs anything, I want to know about it as soon as possible. He would try to contact me here."

"Nick, please don't worry. If we get any word from Jarrod, we will forward it on to you immediately. You are no longer an inmate, however, and you are not one of my staff, so you cannot remain in this facility. It is against regulations. You understand, of course."

"Yes… Of course, I understand. I will remain in contact. And what is your plan for Heath?" Nick asked. He was astonished at the businesslike tone he had managed for that question.

"597, yes, of course. We are filing the additional charges against him for assault upon the doctor. These charges may evolve, however, as the doctor is faring poorly and may well die of his injuries. In that case, the charge will become first degree murder. In the interim, 597 is at present remanded to solitary confinement and requiring physical restraint to keep my staff and other prisoners safe. Does your family wish regular updates on his status?"


	14. chapter 14

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

Heath shivered as his fever began to climb again, and he tried to wrap his arms around himself against the chill. He was relieved to find he was still alive. The past hours had been a trip through Hades he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. The situation was still pretty dire, but he thought Nick must've found a way to get the Captain to keep him alive for now. _Alive for what, though? Am I a hostage? A trophy? A bargaining chip? Where's Nick, is he safe? Where's Jarrod?_

Heath tried hard to concentrate, to stay alert, to sort things out in his mind so he could figure out what the warden would do next. But fever and exhaustion won out, and he fell into a restless sleep.

 _He scrambled to get up a steep graveled slope. It was dark, thick fog all around. He couldn't see how far he had to go or if there was any end at all. He was crawling, muscles failing, breath coming in harsh gasps. The bodies of his friends and enemies lay dead around him in the mud. Bullets screamed through the air over his head. And always behind and around him, gaining on him, panting, growling, hungry dogs. Heath lunged to grab a tree root to pull himself ahead as he heard the animals closing in. Jaws closed on his reaching arm, as claws and teeth sank into his back, his legs, gouging, ripping. Heath screamed with pain and anger, as the dogs began to drag him back down the hill, away from home, away from safety._

Heath started awake, sweating, still struggling, and was brought up short by the restraints that chained him to the wall. Reality dropped quickly into place, but the nightmare was not so willing to release its claws from his mind and body. He could still feel the hot wet breath of the dogs on the back of his neck. He shuddered and wiped the perspiration from his upper lip, his hands shaking.

He sat up, resting his forehead on his good knee. He scowled in frustration. _Goddamnit, boy, don't you have enough crazies beating you up in the real world without adding in your own nighttime version? You just don't need this right now._

He was deep in this conversation with himself and didn't hear Peterson come up beside him until he laid a hand on his shoulder. Heath startled and flinched away from the contact, backing away and scanning the cell for any additional guards.

"Easy, boy, I just brought you some water, ain't you a bit thirsty?"

He took a deep breath, once again trying to settle his racing heart and raw nerves. "Yeah, I guess I am a bit." Raising his manacled wrists, Heath awkwardly accepted the cold canteen and took a long drink.

"Cap'n hasn't authorized any food for you yet. Don't think he wants you getting too lively after what you did to that doctor."

Heath looked up, then shook his head sadly. "I didn't touch that doctor, Peterson." He felt weary, trapped on this chessboard with a petty dictator. "Didn't steal no livestock either, for that matter, but you knew that already, right?" He looked Peterson in the eye.

"I don't know any such thing. I just work here. Prisoners come and go. Not my job to sort out their legal problems."

Heath rested his head back on his knee, figuring he should conserve his energy instead of debating with a guard. He was shivering and sweating, his body aching in a way that told him he had been shaking with fever during his sleep. His leg felt hot, and almost any movement lit lines of fire over his back and arms. He was so tired.

Peterson stood up, annoyed at feeling dismissed by a prisoner. _Maybe this boy ain't so broke in yet after all._ "Well, thanks to you, we ain't got a doctor now, and that knee's gonna need to be cleaned and dressed again. So me and my crew gonna have to do our best with what we got." Heath looked up quickly, tensing. "Yeah, that's right. How many guys you think I'm gonna need to hold you down this time?"

Peterson thoroughly enjoyed the fear this announcement elicited in his prisoner, and he chuckled to himself as he turned to leave. "You should be grateful that we even made the effort to keep you alive. I hear that doctor you attacked ain't doing so well, might die of his injuries. That'd be a murder charge for you. We coulda just left you in the box for another few hours, and be done with you, but the Captain wants to keep you as a pet, which seems to suit your family just fine.

"Your big brother Nick was cleared by the Sheriff, and he's high-tailed outta here already without lookin' back. Your brother Jarrod never did come back - I heard the roads to Brazos were all washed out in that storm 2 days ago anyway, so couldn't reach the judge. So I guess the _real_ Stockton Barkleys are movin' on - without you and your baggage."

Heath went very still and just looked at him. Looked _through_ him, really - his eyes fixed on thoughts a thousand miles away. _He don't look so uppity now, does he_ , Peterson thought with some satisfaction as he moved away.

Heath was well aware of the injury the guard wished to inflict, and he felt rigid and cold, guarding himself from the pain and fear those words provoked. _Amazing how some folks develop a skill for knowing what to say that'll hurt a person the most. Some folks can sense pain or need and they go to help. Some can sense it and try to gut you with it instead, I guess._

Suddenly Heath clenched his teeth and grunted in pain as a wave of shaking rigors came over him. He knew from the field that this kind of shivering did not bode well. It usually meant toxins from the infected wound were spreading through the body. That festering burn on his leg was quickly becoming a bigger threat to his life than any sadistic jailkeeper. Soon it wouldn't matter whether he was free or not, whether there was a doctor or not, the infection would just sweep him away like a passing forest fire.

"P-peterson," he said, "Wait. Please -"

The guard paused at the metal door of the cell.

"Could I - could I have some more water before you go?"

Peterson met his gaze, struck by the resigned sadness he saw there, instead of the impotent rage or desperation he thought he might provoke. The boy also looked pale and sick as hell. "Yeah. Here." He brought the canteen back. Heath's hands were visibly shaking as he reached for the water.

"I reckon you're right about that leg," Heath said softly. "If that infection isn't cleaned out, seems I'm either gonna die, or lose that leg, or both." He paused as another painful wave of shaking chills racked his body. He took another drink from the canteen and weakly armed the sweat off his brow. "I don't think I could do it myself, not the way it hurts." He looked at Peterson, apprehension in his eyes. "Has to be done, right...? I could try not to fight so much, if you - if you could help -" Heath looked down, feeling hopeless, searching his mind for something to give himself strength to find a way through and out of this terrible situation. He needed this man's help. But Peterson could just take this as another opportunity to be cruel. "I don't think I can get it done myself," he said finally, more to himself than Peterson.

The guard looked down at this man who, at the moment, could do nothing but ask, and hope for a little mercy. Peterson doubted any mercy would be forthcoming from the Captain. Risley's appetite for cruelty was vast, and like a hungry scavenger, he could always sense when there was more meat to be pulled from the bone. Sick as this cowboy was, there was still plenty left of him, and Risley wouldn't be done with him anytime soon. _Reckon I can cut him a little slack. Won't make much difference in the long run, anyway._

"Me and a few of my crew have some medic training. Captain's gonna want to see you first. Once he gives us the go-ahead, we'll soak that bandage off and then clean it best we can. Ain't gonna be fun. Ain't got nothing to give you to ease the pain."

Heath nodded, still looking at the floor. _Nick and Jarrod, they went to get help. I know they did. They won't leave me here. They'll be back for me. I know they're coming back for me._ "I understand…thanks for the water."


	15. chapter 15

_Carterson Prison, October, 1864_

As the sun rose an hour or so later, Heath was awakened by the blanket being roughly yanked from his shoulders. He tried to get his sore, stiff body upright on his own power, but he didn't move quite fast enough for the guards. They pulled him the rest of the way to his feet, where he found himself facing Linceul yet again.

"So, Yankee boy, what is your choice this morning? Shall we have breakfast together and talk?"

The commander sipped from an aromatic mug of cafe au lait and smiled.

The smell of the coffee almost made Heath weep with longing. It made him think of the companionship of early morning work, of horses and saddles, of feeling fast, and strong, and able. Right now he felt pretty weak and scared. He stood between this viper of a man, and a mother and children who were hiding in fear of their lives, and he didn't at all know that he was up to the task. But the smell of that coffee - well, it was starting to make him feel angry, and he thought that might be a help.

" _D'accord_ ," said Linceul. "I see your answer. Excellent. Private, string him up. We've got the whole day ahead of us."

 _Wellington Labor Camp, July, 1874_

The Captain arrived at the cell as Peterson was opening the door to leave. He stepped in briskly, his truncheon under his arm. He walked a circle around Heath, taking in the status of his wounds, and the signs of a burgeoning infection. The blue eyes that followed his progress were steady, watchful. Risley looked forward with relish to the steps that would be necessary to make that remaining defiance go away. Before he could move forward with corrective action, though, he must take some steps to keep the prisoner alive. This 597 was going to be an asset to him in many ways.

"597. Now that you are in a more receptive frame of mind, I am informing you that you are formally charged with Assault with Intent to Kill according to Nevada statutes, in the matter of your attack upon our camp physician. Be advised these charges will most likely become Murder in the First Degree, as the doctor is not expected to survive. I have given your family a complete update on your status. Your brother Nick has been cleared of all charges. McGowan had stated that Nick was not directly involved in your theft of the livestock, and Nick himself confirms that you falsified the purchase and misled him. He had been released. Your brother Jarrod did not bring the circuit judge, rather, he met up with Nick in town, and I understand they both rode out yesterday. I do not expect them back unless they are needed to testify against you."

Heath remained silent, but winced and tightened his arms around his middle as another wave of shivering chattered his teeth.

"They appear to be excellent, reputable men, both of them. I hope your time in their family has not caused irreversible damage to their standing. I imagine they might even have the nobility, when the time comes, to advocate for you with the jury to belay the order of execution in favor of life imprisonment."

Risley let his gaze linger on Heath for a few moments, then he turned to leave. "Peterson, do whatever you think necessary to clean up the leg wound and get the infection under control. I leave that to you."

"Yes, Cap'n."

"But first, come with me while I check on the doctor."


	16. chapter 16

_Wellington Station, June, 1874_

Jarrod rode slowly back into town. Both he and his chestnut gelding were exhausted, lame, and filthy from their unsuccessful attempts to find a clear path over to Brazos. He had sent a wire ahead to the judge, but there would be no action until Jarrod could present his concerns in person. He rode directly to the livery, wishing to avoid the immediate notice of the sheriff, whose office faced the hotel on Main Street. He entered the hotel by a back door, and was shocked to find Nick in the lobby, pacing like a caged grizzly.

Nick pounced the moment he saw his brother, and pulled Jarrod to a place where they could talk privately. He gripped his brother's shoulders, whispering urgently.

"God, Jarrod, the warden took Heath as soon as you left, grabbed him on some trumped-up charge and then damn near beat him to death with that whip - it was awful - he was going to just keep beating him until he died or I came after Risley, I could see that what he was waiting for. There was no way Heath could last until you got back. But then Heath got him to stop, told him he was the guilty one, that they should let me go, that our family would be glad to be rid of him…"

Nick's voice broke, his eyes tearing. "That got Risley to stop. Risley called me over, asked me if it was true what Heath said, and God help me, I said yes. I promised, I promised Heath I would follow his lead, didn't I -" Nick took a breath and continued. "Then the guards put him in that iron box out in the sun. It was like a metal oven out there in the prison yard and they locked him inside! I could see him fighting like crazy to get away, but they kicked him and beat him down and shoved him in there. Risley was taking me back to his office, said he was going to let Heath just 'cook' in there for a while as a lesson to the other prisoners, but we both knew he was leaving him in there to die.

"I got Risley to get him out. I said he'd be a better 'example' if he was still alive. So they dragged him out and took him down to that holding area. He was covered in blood and barely moving. I don't know if he's ok. Later I heard him screaming down there. Jarrod, he was in pain, he was begging them to stop, I don't know what they were doing to him… God, he was screaming my name, he was calling for me, and I couldn't do anything…" Nick's face was wet with tears.

"Nick, slow down, take it easy, we knew it could play out like this. It's not your fault. We have to keep our heads here if we're going to get Heath home." Jarrod pulled his distraught brother into a hug and tried to help him calm down. He held him tightly and spoke words of rescue and hope, but Jarrod was horrified by what he had just heard, and was struggling to get his own feelings under control.

Nick pulled back and continued. "Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, Risley informed me I was free to go, and kicked me out of the camp. He told me you never made it to Brazos, and there was no judge on the way. He told me Heath was in chains in solitary, that he'd been charged with assaulting the doctor, and might be charged with murder if the doctor dies! I couldn't see Heath to know if he's ok. He was already so sick before, there's no way he assaulted that doctor, and after that second beating, how in the world could he be a threat to anyone? We have to get him out of there!"

"Okay, but we can't ride in there with explosives and guns blazing, and bust him out like we did in Mexico, much as I want to. We have to do this with the full force of law, Nick, and that means, first of all, you and I have to get to a safe place to get word out to our mother, to the circuit judge, and to the prison oversight authorities."

"But _leave_ him here, Jarrod?" Nick said softly. "Leave him here alone? I can't. I don't think I can do it."

"We may still be targets, Nick. I need to get the law here, and I need you to watch my back while I do that. I hate it, but I don't see an alternative."

Nick sniffed and looked down, wiping his eyes, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Okay. Okay, we'll go, God forgive me..."


	17. chapter 17

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

The doctor had been tended to in a bed back in the infirmary. He did look terrible, Peterson thought, though not so much from his injuries. The doctor was sweating and thrashing in his bed, shaking terribly from head to foot, with evidence of several episodes of vomiting covering himself and his bedsheets.

Risley nodded grimly. "He was as addicted to laudanum as he was to alcohol. I expected withholding both would have produced his demise by now. He must be dead before close of business hours today. I want to wire the additional capital murder charges to the County Court before they close for the weekend. Peterson, you check on him after lunch, and if he is still alive, you kill him."

Peterson was no naive fool. He had been assisting Risley in this labor camp enterprise for some time. He knew that what he allowed to happen to men in the camp amounted, at times, to kidnapping and murder. He had sorted this out in his head by thinking of the men as worthless, anonymous saddle bums for the most part. But the doctor - Peterson knew him. He had been a good doctor back when he was sober. Sure, lately he'd been a useless drunkard, a placeholder collecting a government salary. But he had doctored Peterson's wife pretty good when she got a pneumonia and nearly died back in the winter of '68.

Peterson grew cold in his stomach as he contemplated what Risley had done, was doing to the doctor, and was asking him to do. Peterson had taken the prisoner's confession under the whip at face value, and so he had also readily believed that 597 had done the violence in the infirmary. Now, though, it was coming clear to him what had actually taken place. He began to suspect that the prisoner had confessed as he did solely to secure his brother's freedom, that he had sacrificed himself. Peterson wasn't certain yet what he himself planned to do with this new understanding, but he was sure it didn't involve coming back here and murdering the doctor. The question was, what about those Stockton Barkleys? _Had_ they abandoned their bastard here to face his fate alone? Or were they coming back with the law to try to take down Risley, and himself along with him?


	18. chapter 18

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

Peterson collected the supplies he needed to dress his prisoner's wounds. He sent two of his crew to boil several pots of water and fill a canteen with fresh milk, and bring them to the holding cell.

Heath watched as they entered the cell with the supplies and began setting up, a look both of fear and resignation on his face. He felt so sick, he wasn't sure the best hospital in the world could help him at this point. He knew, too, that even in the unlikely event these men wanted to make this easy on him, there was no way. It was going to hurt, and badly. He wished Nick or Jarrod were there with him so he didn't have to do this alone.

 _They'll come back. I know they're coming back for me._

Peterson handed Heath the canteen. "Drink up. It's milk. You need some nutrition if you're going to fight off this infection, and I'm not allowed to give you food. The doc I learned from in New Mexico in the war swore by milk as the best thing to help a person recover."

Heath drank it down gratefully. Though he felt too ill overall to really feel hungry, he knew his body was starved.

"I'm going to clean up your back a bit first while we soak off the bandages on your leg." He directed one of his men to wrap the knee in some wet cloths that had been soaked in boiled water and allowed to cool a bit. Peterson also took some of these and began washing out the lacerations that covered Heath's back and arms. Heath hissed with pain and he shivered as the cloth cleared out blood and dirt from the wounds. As a distraction, between gasps, he asked, "Who'd you serve with in New Mexico?"

"2nd Regiment New Mexico Volunteer Infantry," Peterson replied. "Jake here did too," indicating one of the other guards. "The Regiment doctor taught us a lot." Peterson reassessed the old scars visible on his prisoner's back and began to wonder. "You?"

"Sharpshooter unit," Heath managed through gritted teeth. "We were moved around a lot, but in New Mexico we were attached to the 5th US Infantry, Fort Craig." Heath was staring at the floor, beginning to regret starting this conversation, because he knew where Peterson was going with this next.

The cloth on Heath's back stopped moving. "Carterson. You were in Carterson, weren't you." After a long moment, Heath nodded. Peterson went on, "My unit was deployed further west, fighting Apaches mostly, when that ambush happened. Not for that, we woulda been stuck there in Carterson too right with you, and probably not made it out."

He resumed cleaning, then paused again, his heart suddenly racing. "Heath. You're _Heath_. You didn't go by Barkley then."

Heath, surprised, looked up at Peterson, who was staring at him as though Heath had just appeared in front of him out of thin air. "My little brother Michael. He was in Carterson. You saved his life. He lost his leg, but he lived, thanks to you."

Heath raised his eyebrows. "Mikey? That big redhead is your brother? You two don't look anything alike. Yeah, I remember him, for sure." He smiled to himself. "How is he now? He do okay?"

"More than okay. Became a damn good smithy, married a schoolteacher, got a bunch of kids. His wife calls him Hephestos, cause of that Greek god who was a lame blacksmith."

Heath put his head back down on his knee. "I'm glad to hear it."

Quietly, almost to himself, Peterson said, "I'm guessing then - that a few of these stripes on your back are there cause of what you did for Mikey."

"Bentell wasn't too happy with me that day, for a lot of reasons."

Peterson stayed quiet for a while after that, trying to sort out what he had learned and what he should do next. The two guards had listened to every word, and were looking somberly at Heath as well. Finally he decided he first needed to get done the task of treating that burn as well as he was able. The rest he'd figure out later.

"Let's get that knee done."

Only Peterson noticed Risley enter the anteroom of the cell block. Peterson wasn't surprised. As he had done before, Risley planned to watch from the darkened observation room where he could not be seen. Yesterday, it had been a brutal and merciless procedure, and Risley had enjoyed that greatly. Today, Peterson intended to minimize this soldier's suffering as much as he could, though he doubted he could do much.

Peterson handed Heath a twisted rag. "Here. Bite on this. You're going to need it." Heath complied, then wrapped his arms around his good knee and buried his face in his arms. He was already breathing too fast just from fear and waiting, and tried to get his body to relax a little. He had another bout of shivering. The rattle of the chains sounded loud in the bare stone cell.

"Ok, Jake, I'm going to get these stuck-on bandages off. They're gonna take some skin with them for sure, but they should also pull out some of the debris and dead stuff we've got to clean out anyway. I'm hoping we'll see some bleeding underneath. You hold his leg still. Williams, you stand by me, you're going to hand me new bandages and instruments as I need them. We'll see how it goes - I might need you also to hold him still if he can't manage it just with Jake there. Heath, you understand?"

Heath nodded, keeping his head in the crook of his arm.

"Ok, here we go."

The first wave of pain after the old bandages came off was deceptively mild, as they pulled with them mainly a superficial layer of burned, dead and infected tissue. But the coals had been lit, and soon the fire was blazing. Peterson proceeded with the debriding, scraping and pulling off deeper layers of the burn where the infection was brewing.

When they had scrubbed all these injuries before, soon after his release from the sweatbox, Heath had been delirious. The pain then had been massive but confused, mixed in with nightmares and memories. When he had fought, when he had screamed for respite, his struggle with these guards had been just as much a battle with a host of his demons who rose up in his delirium to seize him.

Now, he was fully conscious of what was being done, by whom, and why. There were no blessed lapses of awareness to help his passage. He felt every scrape and cut like a branding iron was being pressed into his flesh. He wished more than anything he had one of his brothers to hold on to. He was aware, though, of the three men trying to help him as best they could. At least he didn't feel completely alone.

Heath was panting harshly through his teeth that were clenched on the rag in his mouth. His muscles strained against the restraint on his leg, as every instinct in his body told him to pull away from the pain. He kept his head down, his arms shaking with the tetanic grip he maintained on his other leg, his hands white-knuckled fists. Sweat dripped from his hair. He began a muffled, hoarse, rhythmic keening, as though he were screaming in agony from miles underground.

Peterson was sweating himself, well aware of the pain he was causing, and praying the procedure would not be in vain. When the whole of the burned area seemed debrided down to a fresh, briskly bleeding surface, he washed it again with clean boiled water, and dressed it with clean bandages. He first soaked a cloth in salt water that had been boiled, and - warning Heath that "this is gonna sting" - laid that directly on the raw area. The knee he then wrapped tightly with dry bandages. He had been taught that the salt pulls swelling out of the tissues, and the dry bandages wick the fluid up and away from the wound.

Finally, it was done. Peterson and Jake got a clean shirt on their prisoner and carefully laid him down on his side. Heath was still shaking, covered in sweat, his breath rapid and shallow. His gaze seemed fixed on a tragedy happening a long way away. Peterson crouched by him, holding a canteen to Heath's mouth. "Hang in there, soldier," he whispered to him, not wanting to be overheard. "You need water. Drink a little and then get some rest." Heath willingly swallowed the cool water, nodded, then closed his eyes and seemed to drift off. As Peterson stood to go, Heath touched his arm.

"Thanks," he said, barely audible. "I know it's a lot to ask - but if you hear - if there's any word from my brothers, could you let me know?"

"Sure." _Good Lord in heaven,_ Peterson thought. _How is this all going to turn out? If those brothers do come back, I'm finished. I should just pack up the wife right now and make a run for it. But if those high and mighty Barkleys did go and leave this poor boy behind, I don't see how I can just let him rot here and die alone, after what he did for Mikey. Seems I'm finished here either way._


	19. chapter 19

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

As Peterson expected, Risley approached him as he left the cell block. "You were rather gentle with the prisoner this time."

Peterson had his response ready. "Yes sir, I wanted to reduce some of the stress on him at this point so he can fight off that infection. I'm assuming there is a reason you want him to survive this, at least for now."

"Quite right. I think there are many ways in which 597 will be useful."

"How about feeding him?"

"Water. Broth if he needs salt. No food until I authorize."

"Yes, sir." Peterson's mind was racing, trying to plot a course out of this mess. Heath seemed out of imminent danger of death, however, the noon hour was approaching, and he needed a plan what to do with the doctor.

Peterson considered that while he had slightly greater freedom of movement than his prisoner, he was just as short on allies. He could not turn to the local Sheriff, who was just as culpable as anyone in the operation of this camp. Could he trust any of his men? He would be asking them to switch sides, to give themselves up, perhaps with a hope of clemency. Why would they be willing to do that? If they knew that the law was coming down on them no matter what, perhaps. Peterson had no way of knowing if the Stockton Barkleys were long gone and glad to be rid of their bastard, or if they were even now riding back to this camp with a federal judge and his marshals.

Peterson realized he had reached a decision. He didn't know if the brothers were on their way back with help, so he was going to have to call for that help himself. It might not get here in time for Heath or the doctor, or for Peterson himself, for that matter. He was going to get the word out, and then he was going to do what he could to get those two men to safety.

Peterson started with Jake and Williams, because he needed to act fast to get the doctor out of harm's way. They already had shown they were willing to help take care of Heath.

Jake was easily persuaded. Jake had known the doctor as long as Peterson had. The doc had set his boy's broken arm last summer, and had helped Jake himself through a nasty bout of kidney stones. Williams was a little harder to convince. He was a cynical and practical man. He came on board once he was presented with enough plausible evidence and a plan of action.

Jake and Williams got the doctor safely out of the camp, and hid him in an unused cabin at the back of Williams's property. They corroborated Peterson's report to the Captain that the doctor had died as expected. Peterson told the Captain he was taking care of the arrangements for the doctor's body.

While the doctor was being smuggled out of the camp, Peterson rode into town and contacted the federal marshals. He offered a confession of his own collusion in the labor camp as an incentive for the marshals to move quickly. He let them know that Risely would be filing a false murder charge against prisoner 597.

Once that was done, and the doctor out of danger, he thought he'd have a little breathing room to figure out what to do with the cowboy. Some days later, however, the return of the Barkley brothers caused his plans to spin rapidly in a new direction.


	20. chapter 20

_Wellington Labor Camp, July, 1874_

Aside from the ordeal of the wound cleaning, and a few surreptitious deliveries of milk, Heath remained shackled in solitary confinement with no outside contact other than Risley. Guards were not permitted to speak with him. The only voice he heard was Risley's. Heath felt the fever from his injuries was definitely better, but the lack of food and fresh air and human contact was dragging him down more and more with each passing day. He struggled to keep track of time. Any sleep was broken up by pain and other discomforts, nightmares, and Risley's "interviews", which were deliberately timed to disrupt any rest he might have had.

Risley had an agenda. Even in his exhausted, brain-fogged state, Heath could see this, though that knowledge offered him thin protection from the physical and mental assault that Risley now brought to to bear.

For practical purposes, Risley wanted to harangue Heath into a confession regarding the assault upon the doctor. This would give Risely some legal and bureaucratic protection. For his own happiness, however, Risley wanted to see Heath beaten down and utterly hopeless of his return to the Barkley family, wanted him not only to believe that they had abandoned him, but that he deserved to be abandoned. Further, he wanted Heath licking the Captain's boots and under the Captain's thumb for all to see. With the matter of the doctor taken care of, Risley was now free to turn his full attention upon Heath.


	21. chapter 21

_Carterson Prison, October, 1864_

"I am so glad I don't have anything else on my schedule today." Linceul sounded genuinely pleased to have Heath as a guest. "I do hope you won't be giving in too easily, boy, I have several things I want to try."As before, Heath could not follow him with his gaze, bound as he was tight to the drying rack. "In fact, just to make sure you don't interrupt -" Linceul appeared for a moment in Heath's view with a length of cloth, and then cinched the gag between his teeth like the bit of a bridle, tying it snugly at the nape of his neck. Heath growled and struggled briefly, but he had such a limited range of movement he accomplished little. Linceul then stepped behind Heath again, and without warning, blindfolded him. The sudden blindness was intended to frighten, and it had its desired effect. Linceul was pleased to see Heath's breathing quicken as he he pulled against his bonds, wasting his energy in a surge of anxiety.

"I like to add the element of surprise. Are you ready? Let's begin."

Heath struggled to calm himself down. He was glad to find that the seeds of anger sown with those coffee beans this morning seemed to be taking root rather than withering, despite the fact that his situation was growing more horrible by the second. He welcomed the feeling. He had seen enough of his comrades, brave boys and tough as they come, brought to their knees by injury, torture, fear, or just the terrible experiences of war. He had few illusions about how much he or any person could take before they broke. Everyone breaks, at least on the outside. He just didn't want to break on the inside.


	22. chapter 22

_Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874_

It was 2 AM, though Heath had no way of knowing that other than the deep chill in the air. He was dozing, sitting with his shoulder against the back wall of the cell, shivering. The metal door of the cell slammed open. Heath started awake, hands coming up in defense, trying to get to his feet even before his eyes were fully open. Hands pulled his shirt off his back and shoved him forward. In the dimness, a chair was brought in, and Heath was roughly placed in it, his hands secured behind him. The guards left the room, and Risely stepped in, closing the door behind him.

"The doctor is dead. You beat him to death with that truncheon, and you will be tried and convicted of murder by our town magistrate. I have the discretion to adjudicate this case locally, and I intend to, as we can avoid a great deal of delay and bureaucracy. Our prosecutor will request the death penalty, and I expect it will be carried out immediately."

Heath said nothing.

"Do you want to die, 597?"

Heath almost laughed out loud at that question. He'd had this conversation before, with a Mexican Federale officer who had locked him up in Rio Blanco. Then, he knew he was a political hostage, and that he might well be killed. That Federale was just a jealous, politically ambitious officer. Heath was sure he had enjoyed the opportunity to beat down the rich American, but he did not have the skill or passion for it - or the insanity - that Risely was showing. Heath was sure he didn't want to die, but a life sentence under Risely, if that was his fate, was right up there with dying on his list of things he didn't want to do.

There were so many unknowns in this terrible situation. He felt so weak, and sick, and worn out, it was hard for him to think himself into the future at all. He let his mind go instead to his brothers, whom he could picture far away and free of this evil place. He prayed Nick and Jarrod had gotten away safely. Maybe they would be better off without him. He liked to think of them happy and safe -

His thoughts were interrupted by a hard blow to his face, then another. Mindlessly, he pulled against the shackles that bound him to the chair, wanting to protect himself, to strike back. But he was helpless. Risely waited a moment until he was sure he had Heath's full attention, then struck him again, twice. Heath tasted blood in his mouth.

"You _laugh_? Nick in particular was shocked and horrified by what you did to that doctor. The doctor was useless drunkard, yes, but he was helpless! Your brothers have begged me to seek a full confession from you, to prove to them and to the magistrate that you are remorseful, that you don't deserve to die. They have promised me they will ask for your life to be spared, if you confess and enter a plea of guilty. They have begged me to make you confess, do you understand? For your own good."

"You're insane," Heath said. "I won't confess to anything. My brothers would never -"

His words were cut off by a blow across his shoulders followed by terrible, burning pain. Another blow followed, and Heath was unable to speak, panting, gritting his teeth as a fire raged across his back. Risely coiled the short signal whip he carried in his gloved hand and observed his effect.

"I gave them my word I would do everything I could to bring you into the light, to save your life. Why do you want to drag this mess of yours through their respectable lives any more than you already have? A trial, a certain conviction, a public execution? Why would you do that to them? I could return you to the general prison group. You could have food, water, a bunk, men to talk to, some useful work to do." Risely spoke with absolute conviction, even passion.

"Risely, what _are_ you?" Heath said, meeting his eyes. "This was your doing. I never harmed that doctor. I can't be put on trial without an attorney. My brother Jarrod -"

The whip cracked out again, one, two, three times, this time laying lines of fire across his chest and stomach. Heath gasped and tried to curl himself around the pain, a moan escaping from his clenched teeth. _God, that hurts!_ The welts from the short whip felt like they had been traced in molten lead across his skin. _Why?_ Heath looked down at his chest, half-expecting to see himself flayed open. He could see the thin lines where the whip had made its marks, but nothing to explain the searing pain that even now was stealing his breath away.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Risely had followed Heath's gaze and smiled enigmatically. "Attorney Barkley has signed off, 597. He had wisely deferred all of this to a public defender, though I'm told they're have some difficulty finding one willing to take your case. What is the point, 597? Confess. Let that good family go. Let them go. Then maybe you can begin to take a true accounting of yourself, find where you belong in this world."

Heath felt a surge of fear and he strained uselessly against the chains binding his arms. Was it possible his brothers believed him guilty of this? Risely's words crawled over him like hungry rats, looking to find their way in so they could consume him from the inside. "No. _No_. You're lying -"

The whip flashed again, and again, and again, until Risely was satisfied there'd be no further argument from 597 for this interview. Heath sat with his eyes squeezed shut, panting rapidly through his teeth, muscles tense as he tried not to cry out. The burning reached a peak but then just went on and on, fading so slowly that he was beyond his endurance. Tears slid down his face. _He's lying. They wouldn't just leave me here._ _They wouldn't believe I killed that doctor._ _They're coming back for me -_

Risely was very pleased with the effect of his whip, which this time he had soaked in a slurry of ghost peppers so potent he had to stand back from the container to avoid burning in his eyes and nose. The lash created just enough, but not too much, skin injury to deliver the caustic substance. Very effective.

Still, he needed that confession, as he was counting on that to secure the gratitude of the Barkley family. He would plan on another interview with 597 later today.


	23. chapter 23

_Carterson Prison,October, 1864_

The day passed as a series of disjointed fragments, some blurry, some painfully sharp, when Heath would try to think back on it afterward. "You are forgotten. They have left you to me," Linceul kept repeating to him in a joyful whisper. "You are dead to them."

The beating - with various devices and various enhancements - went on throughout the day, again with the unchanging river of prison life flowing around and past him as though he were a deserted island, unseen. It was a passage through hell. He couldn't see, he couldn't speak, and worse, he wasn't seen or heard. He was asked no questions, there was no interrogation. There was only Linceul, trying this, trying that, experimenting with ways to maximize pain, minimize injury. There were knotted lashes that would lacerate, rods that would leave the skin intact. Intrusive, roaming, caressing hands that would seek out nerves and pressure points, creating intense, unbearable, lancinating pain before moving on. Heath wanted to scream

 _stop what do you want JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT PLEASE STOP_

but he couldn't scream, and besides, he knew what Linceul wanted now. Linceul was getting what he wanted, and so there was nothing Heath could do. He was trapped in a black pit, being eaten alive piece by piece.

Later, after nightfall, Linceul came to retrieve him with a bucket of salty water and washed him thoroughly, provoking a new round of agony. Linceul then personally walked the boy to his command tent, holding him up and supporting his weight most of the way.

Once there, he cuffed Heath's hands behind his back, put on leg irons attached to a bolt in the ground, and left the boy chained at the foot of his bed. For the next few weeks that's where Heath remained, frequently the subject of more experiments in pain, sometimes ignored, never fed.

Linceul seemed to enjoy handling Heath, stroking his skin, petting him, touching his hair. Heath found himself glad for any moment that Linceul was not inflicting pain, as invasive and uncomfortable as this other contact was. Of course, he never knew when that touching would turn into something else, something excruciating. Heath could sense no pattern, except that there was none. There was no way to relax, or to prepare himself. He was in an agony of fear and waiting every time Linceul turned his gaze upon him, reached his hands to touch him. It was quite evident to Heath that Linceul was sexually aroused at those times. He reckoned he ought to be grateful Linceul seemed to take his sexual interest in him only so far. When he had the energy to think about it, though, Heath did wonder what, if anything, Linceul did to relieve himself, and with whom.

Heath grew steadily weaker, and eventually the commander allowed his wrists to be shackled in front, and one of the leg irons removed. Linceul took his own meals in his tent. Sitting at his table, he would consume his ample rations and silently look at Heath. He seemed to want to watch Heath slowly die.


	24. chapter 24

_Wellington Labor Camp, July, 1_ _874_

Heath heard the cell door close as Risley left. Apparently he was to be left in this chair for the time being. Heath looked over his battered body again, what he could see of it. The effects of the past weeks were evident. He was covered with scrapes, bruises, and open lacerations. He was so thin. Every rib was visible, even his filthy, half-burned pants were hanging on him. The sight of his body shrinking from starvation, he realized suddenly, made him feel so _sad_.

Sad. He wasn't expecting that emotion. He'd been through this before, and it had taken many, many months after Carterson just to get his weight back up, to get growing again the way a 15-year-old should, to get his strength back so he could work and take care of himself and his mother. He had been raised with an abundance of love from his mother Leah and his Aunt Rachel. That had helped him through some very dark times, but they never could do much to protect him from a dangerous world. He felt sad for the skinny teenager who'd been through that horror and fought his way back alone to become a man, to get back to his family, to try to live an honest life.

On the heels of that sadness came a familiar, stubborn, protective instinct, and Heath - the grown man - knew this time it was that starving, beat up kid who needed his help to get through. Everything in his current situation shouted at him that he was condemned and alone in hell. Hunger and fatigue and solitude and pain and so many bad memories wrapped around him and dragged him down. He had to find a way to stay strong for that kid. He had so much more family around him now. They hadn't given up on him in Mexico, in fact, his brothers had risked their lives to bring him back. He had to remember he wasn't alone anymore. He had to have faith, so he could stand by that poor kid and bring them both home.


	25. chapter 25

_Carterson Prison, November, 1864_

There was one person keeping track of Linceul and the soldier prisoner in whom Linceul had taken such a ravenous interest. The observer was a Confederate soldier named Samuel Green. Green was a private who had been targeted by Linceul for regular verbal abuse soon after Linceul arrived as commander. That was unpleasant, but liveable - Green was at best an average soldier, shy, and not a stranger to being bullied. The private's best friend, Danny Miller, was an outgoing, handsome young troublemaker, with a good heart. They had enlisted together in their home town. One evening, as Green was being reprimanded after returning to camp from an evening off, Danny came to Samuel's defense, and in a moment of drunken indiscretion, sassed the new commander.

Over the next weeks Danny was summoned for frequent disciplinary meetings with Linceul. He grew pale, sleepless, distracted. He stopped eating. He would not discuss what happened in those meetings. The day came that Green went looking for his friend to warn him that once again he had to see the commander. Green found his boyhood friend in the tool shed, hanging by his neck from the rafters.

Green was a quiet boy, not violent or drawn to fighting. Back home, though, he was known as a young man who would get a job done if it needed done, no matter how unpleasant. If your best hound had gone rabid and you couldn't bring yourself to put him down, Green would do it, not because he liked to, or he didn't care, but because he wanted to help where he could.

Green reckoned his commander was like that rabid hound, except that, unlike a sick hound, he wouldn't eventually just go off and die on his own. He'd stay around like a killing toxin, until someone put him down.

Green also knew who Linceul's current victim was. Didn't know Heath personally, but knew of his unit, and Heath's reputation in particular. He was a stealth killer, and he'd be in a perfect position to take out Linceul, if he could get to the job before he was all gone from hunger.


	26. chapter 26

_Wellington Labor Camp, July, 1874_

Jake ran up to Peterson with a clipboard in his hand, announcing that he had some urgent staffing matters to discuss with him. As soon as he had Peterson to himself, he shared what he had overheard from Harris.

"Those Barkley brothers are on their way back here. They've contacted the Federal Marshals themselves, and Judge Bentley, and they're all en route here."

"Harris said this? How does he know? And if he knows, then the Captain knows."

"Sheriff had some folks looking out for him, sent him a wire. So he came in to tell the Captain. They're making a plan."

"What plan? They should just run."

"Here's the problem. They're traveling separate. The Barkleys are coming in from Thompson, going to meet up in town with the Judge and the Marshals coming over from Brazos. Cap'n and Sheriff have headed out to ambush the Barkleys before they can meet up with the feds. We're ordered to kill our soldier boy quick in the meantime. Figure they'll have a chance at cover-up that way. Seems they don't know about us yet."

"Let's keep it that way. We gotta get Heath out of here now. I'm gonna bring a few things to him and plan to get him out by the south door. You saddle up his horse and bring him around to the south fence where that stand of pine is. We have to move fast."

En route to the solitary block, Peterson was surprised as the sense of relief he felt, a lightness in his spirit. He wondered at it, and thought it was partly because those brothers were coming back for Heath. The idea that they would abandon that strong, loyal, sad boy, while they rode back to their rich life, just seemed so wrong, so disappointing. Peterson was glad they were coming back. He was glad he had chosen to try to help, no matter how it ended up for him.

At change of shift, Peterson dismissed the guard at the solitary cell, then got the bundle he had hidden nearby and brought it into the cell. Heath was still shackled in the chair, new welts and bruises evident on his face and chest. He silently watched Peterson enter.

Peterson unlocked his cuffs and handed him a clean shirt. "We've got to move quickly," he whispered. "Do you think you can ride?"

Within 15 minutes, he had Heath outside the camp fence. He had gotten him his boots and into some clean clothes. He gave Heath two canteens full of fresh milk, some beef jerky, his rifle with plenty of shells, and his sidearm. Hidden in the stand of pines, they reviewed again the route Risely would likely take to intercept the brothers coming from Thompson. Then Peterson returned to the camp to falsify the execution and disposal of prisoner 597.


	27. chapter 27

_Carterson Prison, November, 1864_

The task was accomplished with little drama. On a foggy night, Green slipped close to the tent and spoke to Heath, sliding a well-made shiv to him under the flap. Little needed to be said. Heath could see his own death approaching on his current path. If he killed Linceul and was caught, they would execute him, which seemed preferable to his current torture. Heath also knew the time was coming when Linceul would start to push for more information, and he worried how long he'd last. If he did manage to kill Linceul and slip away as Green planned, all the better.

And so, later that same foggy night, Linceul returned to his tent. He smiled gently at Heath and ran his hands through his blond hair, saying he intended to create a masterpiece of pain that evening, and then perhaps they could talk some more about Heath's friends in the camp, and what they were up to. The hands suddenly fisted painfully in Heath's hair and pulled his head back against the foot of the bed. Heath tried to pull back and away from this new assault, but Linceul leaned into him and kissed him on the mouth. Pinning the boy against the bed with his weight, he thrust his tongue into his mouth and then moved down ravenously to his neck.

Heath did not waste any more strength with struggling. He had expected that Linceul would move to rape at some point. He was just glad it had taken a while, and that when it did happen, Heath finally had in his hand an effective response. Being right-handed, Heath plunged the shiv deep into and through the commander's left carotid artery, using the momentum to roll the bigger man to the side and off him. Heath moved to get out of the path of the gush of blood he knew was coming next. He sliced hard to his left to sever the trachea, and prevent Linceul from crying out. He let Linceul fall back onto the bed, exsanguinating into the mattress. Heath then dropped the shiv, took Linceul's keys, unlocked his shackles, and slipped under the side flap of the tent. A few yards away, Green met him. "Rinse off in the trough there. I'm going to lock you up in the regular brig. I'm stationed there tonight. I'll swear y'all was there all night long."


	28. chapter 28

_Leviathan Canyon, July, 1874_

Out in that forest, the air cooling as the shadows lengthened, Heath took one brief moment to appreciate the beauty of being unshackled, of brothers returning, of standing next to his horse, of the smell of leather and pine needles. He felt the joy of his returning brothers only briefly, as it was replaced by icy fear that they might be killed if he didn't get to them in time. He felt God-awful weak, and everything hurt, but he could put weight on his right leg, and if he could do that, then he could get up on his horse. He let Charger know that they had some serious work to do together. Once again, they were riding to war.

They had some catching up to do. Risley had at least an hour head start on him. Ideally, if he could reach his brothers first, they could avoid the ambush completely. Failing that, though, Heath was going to have to get there in time to outflank the enemy.

Charger was up for the task, his big smooth gallop and fine balance making the run easier on his battered rider. Heath put his mind in a quiet receptive place as he was wont to do before a fight, observing, listening, ready to act.

He spotted the field of battle from a rise a mile out, and he feared he'd be too late. Here again, had Risley been a stone-cold practical criminal, he would have ambushed the two Barkleys, killed them, and been done with it. But it appeared Risley wanted a capture and confrontation. He was enraged by the deception, the way they had reeled him in on his own line, and he needed to let them know in person that he had tortured and killed their dear bastard brother. And so, as Heath drew closer, Risley had the two brothers at gunpoint, and was sharing his description of Heath's last days in loving detail.

Heath hid Charger a quarter of a mile to the north of the ambush, and turned to make his way closer to the campsite. Nick and Jarrod had made a fire, had not been trying to hide their presence, because they did not think they had yet entered enemy territory. This was a help to Heath as he ghosted along the ridge above the campsite, looking for a vantage point where he could cover both of his brothers.

He needed all the help he could get. His muscles were shaking all over with fatigue, and every breath he took lit a network of pain over his chest and back. His left eye was swollen and blackened from his last "interview", giving him some double vision. He felt sure that his labored breathing could be heard clear across the valley.

He was close enough now to make out what Risley was saying. Nick and Jarrod were both on their knees near the fire, the sheriff and two deputies covering them with handguns. Two other riflemen were outside the firelight, facing outward, guarding the perimeter.

"He'd have died of starvation soon enough," Risley was saying, "but we beat him to death. He died thinking you two were never coming back for him. We told him you were long gone back to Stockton and good riddance to him."

His brothers looked like stone statues of men frozen for eternity in a state of rage and anguish. He heard Risley continue.

"I wanted to make sure you knew that before we killed you as well. I'm very disappointed in both of you. Had you been sincere with me, this could have made for an excellent partnership. As it is clear you were duplicitous, well, I must eliminate you both." He gestured to the sheriff to get on with it.

The sheriff raised his sidearm, and the two deputies followed suit. Before he could give the order to fire, three rifle shots rang out in rapid succession, and the three men dropped like rag dolls, each with a bullet hole in his head.

Risley froze for a moment in shock, then spun, for all the world like a ballerina, as a fourth bullet slammed into his left shoulder. He fell, howling, to the ground.

The riflemen on the perimeter were not inexperienced deputies. They both quickly spotted the sniper's location and opened fire. Heath tried to shift to a secondary spot, a large boulder off to his left, as he still needed to protect his brothers from these last gunmen. He moved sluggishly, though, misjudging the distance to his cover, and was knocked to the ground by a bullet to his right flank. He rolled behind the boulder, crawling awkwardly, grimacing in pain. He was shaking badly now, and trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes. Were they coming up the hill at him? Or doubling back to go after Nick and Jarrod?

Grunting in pain, Heath pulled himself up to the boulder to get a look and sight his rifle. _Damnit_. One of the guns was dodging up after him, the other already had his rifle on his brothers by the campfire. Risley, whom he had deliberately not wounded fatally, was rising and shouting orders at the rifleman.

Heath could feel throbbing and the warm spread of blood above his right hip, along with a deep pain that was draining away his strength. _Now or never,_ he reckoned. Keeping his belly on the ground, Heath elbowed his way forward, sighting his rifle on the expected path of the man zig zagging up the hill toward his position. He focused everything he had into slowing his breathing, calming the shaking of his muscles, putting aside the screaming of his injuries. _Breath in, breath out, breath in, hold, target moving, fire._

The hill-climbing rifleman went down with a chest shot. Risely was yelling, "Kill them. Kill them both right now." Risley had not made it to standing, but was kneeling, leaning against a tree, holding his left shoulder. He remained unarmed. Rifleman Two was the only enemy weapon left, but he stood between Heath and his brothers. If he missed, in his shaky, double-vision state, he could hit one of them.

No time. Time was up. Heath knew if that rifleman got a chance to pull the trigger, he wouldn't miss, and Heath would have to live with that forever. _Do what you know how to do, boy._


	29. chapter 29

_Leviathan Canyon, July, 1874_

The rifleman brought his sights to bear on Nick. Nick and Jarrod both flinched as the rifle shot sounded, then watched in silence as the man before them dropped dead to the ground.

In a flash, Nick was on Risley, his big hands buried in the Captain's uniform lapels. He jerked Risley to his feet, and then threw him to the ground between himself and Jarrod. "What I ought to do to you…" he growled.

"Nick. What the hell just happened?"

"Marshals must have backtracked to meet us. Where are they?"

They scanned the ridge around them, listening, looking for signs of a friendly force. There was silence, no movement.

"What the hell…Who…?"

"Heath? Is that possible?"

"Risley said Heath is dead. He said they killed him. Is that true? Risley! Answer me or so help me -"

Risley, his face in the dirt, said, "I didn't see him die. I ordered it be done before I left, and my men confirmed it."

"Heath…? _Heath_!"

Nick took off to search the ridge. Jarrod made sure Risley was in restraints and unarmed, before he ran to join his brother. Almost 200 yards up the ridge, they found him lying face down, his head cradled on his left arm, right hand on his rifle, breathing shallowly in a spreading pool of blood. As they laid hands on him, he roused, coughed, and then groaned as he tried to lift himself up.

"Whoa, no no, Heath, lie still, brother. We got you. Don't try to move. We gotta get you down off this ridge."

"Charger…"

"I'll get him, Heath, where is he?"

" 'bout another 200 yards north. Go get him, please, I'll be alright.."

Jarrod said, "I'll get him. Nick, you stay with Heath."

"Heath, I'm right here by you." Nick's voice was rough, shaky. He pulled his bandana out and began exposing the wound in Heath's back. He pressed the cloth into the wound to slow the bleeding. Heath tensed, cried out, then squeezed his eyes closed and tried to breath through it. "Easy, Heath, easy…listen, I want to check the other side of this wound. You can't afford to lose any more blood. If I help, do you think you could roll part way to the side so I can get some pressure on that?"

Heath nodded, silently. Now, as the adrenaline of the fight drained away, he felt leaden, so weighed down that he could barely move. He was soaked in sweat, and to Nick's eyes he was turning a frightening shade of gray. Nick got another cloth ready, and gently rolled Heath to his left side, pulling his shirt away to press on the bleeding where the bullet had exited.

Heath gripped Nick's arm convulsively, turning his face into Nick's chest as he tried not to yell in pain. He managed to keep it to a drawn out whimper through gritted teeth.

"Boy howdy, Nick, I can't believe I... I went and got shot...on top of ev-.. everything else... damn that hurts... where's my horse?"

"He's right here, Brother Heath," said Jarrod, kneeling down. He looked at Nick, trying to gauge from him how bad Heath was.

"No time to waste, Jarrod," Nick said.

Heath whispered, "Just glad you're both safe...you're OK, you're both OK?"

"We're fine, thanks to you, now shush and let us check you over."

"That's good...I was afraid...I was so weak and slow and this eye was a mess, I was so scared I wouldn't be able to stop them..." Heath gasped as Nick moved down to check Heath's bandaged knee, then his breath quickened as the fear of not being able to save his brothers came swelling back up in his chest. "I was so slow. I got shot because I was so slow. They could've killed you. I was so scared he'd kill you both and I wouldn't be able to -" His voice broke, and he just looked at them, holding on to the sight of them to try to push away the horrible image of them shot dead in that campsite below.

"We're here, Heath, we're OK, we're safe now." Nick tried to roll him a little further onto his side. The movement caused a new wave of pain and some nausea, and Heath closed his eyes tightly, panting through his teeth until he felt his insides settle down.

"Nick…" Heath managed between breaths, "I didn't...believe him, you know. He kept telling me …that you and Jarrod had left me there, that you weren't coming back. He told me you all thought that I killed that doctor, and I should confess, I should let you go…He told me again...and again. I didn't believe him. I didn't...I..."

Heath trailed off, his eyes closing from pain and fatigue. Jarrod pulled the bedroll from Heath's saddle and wrapped it around him. Nick thought, _I'm guessing a part of you did believe it, Heath, just a little bit._ He looked sadly up at Jarrod. "We will always come for you, little brother. Always."

 _Carterson Prison, November, 1864_

Heath was eventually returned to his unit, a good bit worse for wear, but with enough strength left to recover and gradually back away from the precipice. The boys and men of his unit - and their hidden refugees - for the most part tried to care for each other, as much as was possible in such privation. Private Green quietly made sure some extra rations and liniment and bandages made their way to him. Heath got enough nutrition and protection and care to heal his body and get to where the nightmares weren't too bad.

There was some hubbub around the murder of Linceul. Many on both sides suspected Heath, given the manner of death, and the fact that Linceul had been feeding on the boy for longer than they'd ever seen him torture anyone. But there was such great relief upon his passing that not much was pursued. So much was going on, with the war seeming to be lost, and chaos everywhere. Still, the killing of a camp commander did demand some sort of administrative response, something to show that things would be "tightened up" there at Carterson. Corrective actions would be taken. Word came that the new commander was a straight arrow, an experienced Confederate Army administrator by the name of Matt Bentell.


	30. chapter 30

_Leviathan Canyon, July, 1874_

Working now under moonlight, Nick and Jarrod endeavored to get their brother more securely bandaged up, so they could tackle the next task of getting him back down to their campsite. Heath had already rolled himself onto his back, and was trying to sit up, talking about having to get back to the prison camp as soon as possible.

"Heath. _Heath_ , just hold still for a minute. You're gonna get this thing bleeding again if you don't settle down." Jarrod sat behind Heath with his arm around his chest. He pulled him back to lean against him. "Let Nick get this wrapped around you."

Nick leaned in, wrapping a long length of cloth around Heath's abdomen. The binder, fashioned from sliced up bedrolls taken from the deputies' saddles, was intended to press in on the packing Nick had placed in the entry and exit wound and hold it in place. As Nick tightened it, Heath gasped, pressing his head back onto Jarrod's shoulder, his eyes fixed on the dark sky as he tried not to pull away. "I'll be alright. I can ride. Just - just get me up."

"One step at a time, boy," Nick muttered as he concentrated on unbuttoning Heath's torn-up shirt the rest of the way. He pushed the shirt aside, feeling with his hands to make sure the binder he just placed was lying flat and snug, and was holding the packing as it should. Heath flinched, and Jarrod felt him grow tense. He looked down at Heath, who had turned his head and was looking intently at nothing in the middle distance, as though he could will himself to be invisible. Nick's hands stopped moving, and just rested on Heath as Nick and Jarrod began to take in the extent of the injuries on the starved, too-thin body of their brother. "Heath - ", Nick began, then stopped. He wasn't sure what he was going to say next, or how it would come out, but he sensed that right at that moment, the weight of his own feelings would be too much for Heath hold up under. He looked to Jarrod for help.

"Heath," Jarrod said quietly. "Are you injured anywhere else we should know? Want to make sure we get you out of here in one piece." He too felt an imperative not to unbalance whatever Heath was doing to hold himself together, to keep himself moving.

"No," he said tightly. "I just wanna get up." He was avoiding their eyes. He did not want to see their worry, did not want to see his battered, messed-up self reflected in their eyes. He could feel their gaze like an unwelcome hand moving over his skin. He pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it with shaky hands.

"Listen, kid, for one thing, you're dry as a bone. You're gonna get dizzy and sick if you stand up too fast, and then we're gonna have to catch you so you don't hit the ground. Why don't you drink something first, at least?" Nick pulled a canteen from Charger's saddle.

Heath relaxed a bit, glad for the scolding, big-brother tone in Nick's voice. "Yeah - there's milk in those. Warm by now, but I could sure use a drink." Heath drained the canteen, then just sat up for a minute with Jarrod's help, waiting for the nausea to pass. Charger dropped his head and whuffed in Heath's ear, nudging him with his soft nose. "OK, champ, you're gonna have to give me a minute." Heath looked up at his saddle. It seemed an awfully long way away from where he was on the ground. "I'm gonna need some help getting all the way up there."

Jarrod frowned. "Do you seriously mean to get on that horse? Heath, you've been - " He paused, not wanting to name all the reasons Heath shouldn't be getting up off the ground. "Look, you've got both of us here. We can carry you down to the campsite."

" _No_." Heath felt a surge of anxiety at the thought of his brothers carrying him into camp like an invalid. "No. There's five dead men down there I killed that need tending. Five dead men I need to face, and one wounded monster I've got to deal with. I gotta stay on my feet. I can't lay down, not now." He began to sound desperate. "Nick, Jarrod, please - help me up?"


	31. Chapter 31

_New Mexico, November, 1864_

Matt Bentell stood in the bell tower that overlooked his new domain, the early morning sun already dissipating the scant fog that had arisen during the night. Prisoners who were somewhat able-bodied were busy with their first task of each morning, collecting and gathering the bodies of their fellow inmates who had died during the night. The daily body count had grown dramatically over the past week. As soon as the season had arrived, influenza had flapped in on its dark, suffocating wings and settled on the camp like a bird of prey. Even from his lofty post, Bentell could hear the coughing, smell the death all around.

He resented it. He resented the sickness and starvation that were the true rulers of this castle. He resented the prisoners, with their complaints and their unrelieved pain and suffering. He resented his superiors in the military chain of command, who exiled him to this trash assignment, but couched the dismissal in phrases of praise and admiration. "It's a mess out there, Matt. There's some high-value prisoners in that camp. It needs a steady, strong hand, Matt. Someone who can manage the details, get things organized."

So here he was, managing the details of a God-forsaken, dead-end, death camp, finishing out his service in this God-forsaken, dead-end, war. Meanwhile, those men of power and influence, from whose company he had been banished, remained in civilization, laying the groundwork for their continued rise in the coming post-war world.

At one time, Bentell thought himself a member of that society. He was a newly minted engineer, with big ideas and even bigger ambitions. He envisioned a future advising business leaders, Governors, Presidents even, designing and bringing great projects to completion. It was not wealth he coveted, per se, but the respect, the welcome within the ranks of powerful men, the chance to make a broad, lasting, mark on history. His initial successes in the private sector showed promise, and he began to build a reputation. His wife showered him with admiration and bragged about him to her friends and family, but his momentum slowed, and he began to suspect that there were obstacles to his continued rise that had nothing to do with his skill as an engineer.

Bentell, while skilled and serious about his profession, was also arrogant, and did not manage interactions well that involved listening to others' opinions. He was judgmental regarding any topic that fell within his expertise, and could be openly dismissive and disrespectful once he decided against an idea or strategy. He lost a lucrative bid for a dam and irrigation system to a young man who he felt was far his inferior in training, but was the favored son of the buyer's hunting partner. He made no secret of his contempt for the young man, or the buyer's decision-making abilities. His connections within the social circles that could further his career began to shrivel. In late 1861, he was in the running for a large, publicly-funded water management contract in northeastern Texas. This would be a hugely important project, establishing wells, dams, and irrigation systems to a large agricultural region. He was certain this was his last chance to gain a foothold among the developers that would build the future of Texas. Determined not to be cut out this time, Bentell cut a deal with a subcontractor providing masonry for the project, bribing him to allow Bentell's bid to come in at a lower price. Bentell won the contract, sure his design could compensate for the shortcuts in masonry.

He was wrong. Unusually heavy rains overwhelmed the sub-optimal construction, and thousands of acres were lost for an entire growing season. The original bribe came to light as the catastrophe was investigated, and Bentell appeared to be facing a criminal conviction. The War of the Rebellion was underway, however, and the Confederate Army needed administrators and engineers, men who could organize things. The Army was willing to overlook Bentell's recent misadventures, and could put him to use. Bentell took that way out, and found, not glory and immortality, but a steady job with one limited project after another. Agreeing to military service gave him some protection from the direct revenge of those business and government leaders who had been most harmed by the flooding, but they didn't forget. Bentell could see he was boxed in for the foreseeable future, and grew increasingly resentful and bitter as he saw his talents, his potential, wasted by inferior minds.

Still, Bentell, was nothing if not competitive. He could not entirely give up on the idea of winning back respect and a place among the powerful, and he certainly intended to have respect and power in this, his own corner of hell. He looked out over Carterson and saw a stinking mess of a place. He saw two major tasks to which he could put his hand. One was the overhaul of the camp water and waste management system. That project alone could provide the venue to establish inmate discipline and extract from them some useful work. He considered further the personal profit to be gained by selling water to the parched local farmsteads.

The second task involved the brutal assassination of his predecessor, Jean Linceul. Somewhere down there in that miasma was the person or persons who had killed the previous camp commander. They remained at large (unless they had succumbed to the influenza) and unpunished. In the interests of his own safety, not to mention the rule of law in the camp, Bentell intended to find the assassin or assassins, and bring them to justice.


	32. Chapter 32

_Western Nevada, 1874_

Jarrod knelt beside Heath so they were eye to eye, and motioned to Nick to move in closer as well.

"OK, look," he said, "before we go charging back down the hill to deal with Risley, I think we ought to think this through. Heath is right, there are 5 dead men down there we need to deal with. Heath is still technically an escaped prisoner. While I don't think ultimately you'll be convicted of anything, Heath, fact is, I don't think the marshals will see their way clear to letting you ride back to California without at least an inquest. They're going to want you back in custody."

"Yeah, I figured as much. That is, when I stopped to figure about it at all." Heath's voice was soft. "I'm sorry this is such a mess. At least I know you and Nick are free and clear." He looked down, not wanting his brothers to see the fear in his eyes.

"Now hold on," Nick said. "I'm not going free and clear _anywhere_ until Heath is patched up and on his way home. No way."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. First things first. This is a crime scene, as far as the marshals are concerned, so unfortunately we can't disturb anything until they get here, short of throwing some blankets over those 5 men. One of us is going to have to ride to get the marshals and a doctor and bring them here, and one of us is going to have to stay here with Heath and keep an eye on Risley."

"Heath needs a good bit more fixing up, Jarrod. I just wrapped things so he wouldn't bleed to death getting down this hill. He's just about to drop as it is."

"You may be right about that, big brother," Heath said weakly. "I'm runnin' just about empty. I think we ought to get a move on and figure out the details as we go. I think Jarrod oughta go ride to talk to the lawmen, but Nick, you have to promise not to hurt Risley. He's gonna need some tending to."

"Risley," Nick growled under his breath, staring down at the distant form in the campsite. Heath could practically see his hackles rising.

"Nick," Heath said gently. "Nick, look at me. I know what this has been for you. Believe me, I know. I wish I could have thought of another way out. Please leave him be. Let the marshals deal with him." Nick turned to look at Heath for a long moment, then reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He took a deep breath and nodded.

"OK, well let's see if we can get your sorry self up in that saddle. I don't guess you're going to be jumpin' up there with no stirrups like you usually do."

"No, I don't guess I am," Heath said, wistfully. "Not tonight, anyway."


	33. Chapter 33

_Western Nevada, 1874_

Risley lay on the ground, alternately staring into the dying campfire and watching the ridge for the return of the two brothers. He could hear voices, indistinct sounds occasionally, but no clear clues as to what or who they found up on that ridge.

He lay in pain, though the bullet hole in his shoulder was a minor discomfort compared to the maelstrom of hatred and fear and rage that seemed to fill his head and his chest to overflowing. He had been utterly betrayed once again. Betrayed and defeated by these spoiled, undisciplined, lawless ranchers and their mongrel bastard offspring.

And what about that mongrel? Could it be that he was the hidden assassin? The two brothers seemed to immediately accept such a possibility. The last he had seen of the mongrel, he was shackled in a chair in solitary, whipped into at least a temporary submission. How could he have appeared here, now, and with such deadly efficiency laid waste to his force of arms? Risley was reluctant to pursue that line of thinking, for if it was the mongrel up on that ridge, alive or dead, for a certainty it meant that Risley had also been betrayed by his own men in the camp. Impossible for the mongrel to have escaped without help. If it was so, Risley was quite sure he knew who could have equipped him so efficiently and aided him to escape. But he was not ready to digest that possibility, not yet, not until he knew for sure.

Alive or dead. Risley was acutely aware that he had little to no control over the coming course of events. He considered the possibility that if the Barkleys came down that ridge with their bastard brother, dead or alive, they would kill him, and ride away back to California. He suspected not, however. They themselves had brought in the law. They did not seem inclined to vigilante justice.

The mongrel, however, might be a different animal. Capable of raining down death to protect his brothers, but choosing to leave Risley alive. He stared into the fire, mulling over that peculiar vulnerability. It would be a small satisfaction if the weighty gavel of the law the Barkleys were wielding would crush the mongrel as well. The mongrel had left him alive. Risley deeply hoped he would come to regret that decision.


	34. Chapter 34

_New Mexico, December, 1864_

"Line up for work assignment! Line up for work assignment!"

The call had become part of the morning routine of Carterson, though the collecting of the night's dead remained the first task of the day. No time was allotted for mourning. Bentell was glad the influenza was alleviating some of the horrendous overcrowding of the camp. A smaller inmate population reduced the sewage load and water demand, and made it easier to plan construction. Further, he disliked crowds, and generally avoided physical contact with others.

When he first arrived to Carterson, Bentell was overwhelmed by the filthy chaos of the place. As he envisioned the camp becoming cleaner, more organized under his directions, he felt his anxiety lessen and his thoughts gain clarity. As he shepherded his water project forward, he could now begin his search for Linceul's killer. He had some preliminary information and a few ideas where to start. Organization and the rule of law would prevail in his corner of the Confederacy. He walked out into the yard to observe the work detail lineup at a distance. So many of the prisoners were still coughing. He didn't want to get too close.

Heath took his place in the morning muster. He was still too young to have grown a beard like his fellow inmates, but his hair had gotten so long he had to tie a cloth around his head like an Apache to keep it out of his eyes. He had gained back a little weight and muscle since October. He had starting looking forward to opportunities to work and move outdoors just to keep his strength up and prove to himself each day that he was still alive. The influenza had touched him, but lightly, and he came through after little more than a few days of aches and fever. But this morning his thoughts held no gladness. This morning, he had put his arm around a friend's shoulder for the last time, as he hoisted him up to carry him out to the place where they laid their dead.

Heath had sat the night with Jimmy, as his coughing grew weaker and his breathing slowly failed. Jimmy was closest in age to Heath in his unit, and they had served together for over two years. Early on in training, they had become friends despite their different backgrounds. Jimmy was a farmer's son from Missouri. Horses and cows, to him, were for plowing and milk. He was endlessly entertained by Heath's roping and riding prowess, and his stories of the Pony Express. Jimmy wasn't much of a rider, but he was a crack shot with a rifle, and he had more tricks and secrets for hunting small game and water fowl than anyone Heath had ever met. Jimmy was not a big kid. He was lanky but strong, and he had asthma, which he carefully hid so he could enlist along with his older brothers. The flu found him, though. He fought it for days. Heath sat with him through the worst of it, through the beginning of the end, the blueness around the mouth, the panic of not enough oxygen. Mercifully, last night, Jimmy finally yielded to the soporific of respiratory failure. He stopped struggling, and he simply slept in Heath's arms until he died.

Heath carried him to the dead pile and laid him gently down, closing his eyes with his hand. Jimmy had no possessions, no personal items, nothing to leave behind to mark his presence in that moment other than his comrades' memory of him. So much uncaring, implacable death all around them, threatening to crush their humanity into dust, but for their remembering of each other. He had to remember. Heath felt the weight of the responsibility heavy upon him as he looked at his friend, at the other souls who had departed during the night, even as he looked across the yard at their new commander, who seemed to Heath to be dying a different kind of death.


	35. chapter 35

_Western Nevada, 1874_

Risley watched the three men materialize in the dim light of the dying campfire. He saw the two brothers walking escort on either side of a big bay horse, and the prisoner - _his_ prisoner - in the saddle, looking like it was taking some effort to remain there. So it was the mongrel, after all, dispensing death from above.

The lawyer, Jarrod, stepped first to stoke the fire, and in the brightening light, Risley had a chance to examine Heath, the fugitive, more closely. He was clearly in pain, leaning forward onto the pommel of his saddle, his face drawn and tense with an inward focus, his breathing shallow. His shirt bore streaks of blood that spoke of the unhealed lacerations of the whip, but over his right hip, a darker, denser bloodstain had also soaked down the side of his right leg. He clearly was leaning to keep his weight off that side. The hands gripping the reins and the horn of his saddle were white-knuckled.

Even so, as the firelight rose, Heath raised his eyes to look at Risley. As he did so, he spoke quietly to Jarrod, directing him to tend to Risley's shoulder wound, and make sure he was restrained but as comfortable as possible before Jarrod rode off to bring the marshals.

 _Who does this mongrel think he is, riding up like some benevolent conquering general, forbearing to act out of revenge or anger?_ Risley kept his gaze fixed upon Heath, barely noticing as Jarrod repositioned him to sit against a slim pine tree. Jarrod secured his hands behind the tree trunk, and set about exposing, cleaning, and bandaging the bullet wound in Risley's shoulder. Jarrod then offered Risley some water, then stood to go. He had not spoken a word to Risely as he worked, and he found Risley's unwavering malevolent focus on Heath throughout the procedure very disturbing. Once he had mounted up, he walked his horse over to his brothers on his way out of camp. "You take care, boys. Take care," he warned quietly, looking back over his shoulder at Risley.

"You too, Jarrod. Be careful. We'll be here waiting for you." Nick turned to watch Jarrod ride off into the dark.

Heath kept his eyes on Risley, then winced as he shifted his weight slightly in the saddle. "How you feeling, Nick?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"You're gonna have to keep watch most of tonight. Don't know how much help I'm gonna be."

Nick chuckled as he set about arranging a saddle, bedroll, blankets and equipment by the campfire to serve as his infirmary for patching up his little brother. "Don't you worry about me, boy. I packed plenty of coffee. And, unlike you, I've been eating three meals a day, and I'm not full of holes. I'll be just fine. You should be worrying about how you're going to get down off that horse."

Heath smiled wanly. "Been thinking on that. Think I can get my left leg over, but I might need your help once my feet hit the ground. Reckon that'll hurt less than just letting myself fall into your waiting arms."

Nick moved to Charger's right side, prepared to steady the horse, though Charger stood rock still as Heath patted his neck and spoke to him. Heath knotted his reins so they wouldn't fall and kicked both of his feet out of the stirrups. Shifting his weight forward, he tried to lift himself up with his arms so he wouldn't be dragging his upper body over the saddle. He gritted his teeth and with a noise somewhere between a growl and a sob, he swung his left leg over and dropped to the ground in one excruciating movement. Nick caught him under his arms as his knees buckled, and supported him as he leaned, panting, on the horse's side, waiting for the ground to stand still beneath his boots. Nick turned Heath to face him, and Heath leaned in to rest his forehead on Nick's shoulder. His arms hung at his sides. Nick held him up gently, acutely aware of the stripes of blood that criss-crossed Heath's shirt. Heath took a shaky breath. "Ow, " he declared, plaintively, speaking into Nick's chest.

"I gotcha, Heath, " he said. For the first time now, he looked hard at Risley, trussed to a tree and watching everything. Rage murmured in his ear. But - _Please leave him be_ , Heath had asked of him. Another promise that was going to be tough to keep.

Nick helped Heath limp over to the bedroll he had set up, and eased him down to the ground. "Tend to Charger, would you, Nick? I'll be alright here, just get him settled for the night?"

In a few minutes, Nick was back, stoking the fire, filling pots with fresh water from the stream, tearing blankets into bandages. He cooked up some broth and biscuits for Heath, and coffee for himself. As the water boiled, he set some aside to cool and some he used to boil the bandages.

As Nick worked, Heath looked somberly around at what his work had accomplished that night, taking in the three covered bodies of the sheriff and two deputies, and the rifleman covered a little further away. The fifth man could not be seen, lying as he was partway up the ridge outside the ring of firelight. Five lives gone. Heath felt particularly sorry about the hill-climbing gunman. He could have winged him, maybe, but he just couldn't take the chance. He'd been shaking so badly, and he'd just barely had time before the other man would've gunned down his brothers. Heath felt his heart quicken and his muscles tense as the image of that possible outcome rose into his mind again. He shook his head. _It's over, they're safe, it's done, let it go,_ he repeated to himself until the fear eased off.

He jumped slightly when he felt Nick's hand on his arm. Nick could guess where Heath's thoughts had gone. "I'm so sorry it came to this, little brother. I wish I could take that burden from you. I'm sorry you had to kill those men. But I'm glad to be alive, I'm glad Jarrod is alive, I'm glad you're alive, and I'm _damn_ glad it was you up on that ridge that had our backs." His voice softened as he knelt down beside his brother. "That moment, Heath, when he told us you were dead, when that sheriff raised his gun, that was the blackest, most terrible, helpless moment of my life. I will thank God every day, for the rest of my life, that you were up on that ridge."

Heath opened his mouth to speak, but found himself suddenly so full of feeling that there seemed to be no room for any words to come out. He looked at Nick, his eyes bright, then finally he just nodded.

"Alright, boy, I've gotta get you tended to, 'cause who knows when we're gonna get a doctor here. I've got to get a look at your back, get that binder off and clean out that bullet hole, and what's going on with that burn?"

"That's doing better, I think, Peterson did a good job taking care of that. It was really bad."

"Peterson did?"

"Him and two other guards. They helped me escape, Nick."

"I'm grateful for that. Now get this shirt off, I've got some work to do."

Nick steeled himself, knowing it would not help Heath right now for him to give expression to all the sadness and anger he was feeling for what had been done to his brother. Heath was silent, but unbuttoned his shirt and removed it without protest. It was a relief to see the injuries over his back and arms looked fairly clean, but Nick noticed for the first time the extent of the bruising, abrasions, and ligature injuries on his wrists. Nick was alarmed to see how deep were some of the lacerations on his back, and that some were far more recent than others. Several of the worst ones were still bleeding. Nick cleaned carefully, then pressed some clean strips of bandage over these to try to limit any further loss of blood. Heath sat, eyes closed, trying not to move as he worked.

Nick then unwound the binder around his lower back. As he uncovered the packing, he tried to get a better idea of where the bullet had gone, now that they were in the firelight. It looked like the damage was mainly in the muscle, though Nick was guessing it probably caught some of the top of the hip bone there in front on its way out.

"I'm going to have to take this packing out so I can clean it and get fresh bandages on here. Good thing is, I think it's muscle and bone, I think your insides are ok."

Heath gave a laugh that turned into a groan halfway through as Nick started to remove the packing. "If you say so, Nick," he gasped. As he had before, Heath wrapped his arms around his uninjured knee and stared at the ground, trying his best to stay still and quiet. Nick could hear his breath catch, saw his hands tightening as they twisted the fabric of his pants leg. "Heath? How you doing?"

"Not the brightest question, Nick," Heath squeaked out. "Just get it done."

Nick laid a clean shirt over Heath's shoulders to give his back some protection, then helped him lean back on the blanket-covered saddle behind him. Heath was sweating and breathing in short hitches by the time he was settled. "I'm going to rinse out this whole nasty wound with water. Best thing is to get everything cleaned out of there." Nick's voice sounded tense, preoccupied. He felt out of his depth by a long shot, but kept moving forward on common sense and what he'd seen over his years as a soldier and a cowboy.

He slid some blankets behind Heath's lower back to soak up most of the cooled boiled water he intended to pour through that hole in Heath's side. "Boy, I have no idea whether this is going to hurt, but here we go." He poured a few quarts of water over and through the hole, and was rewarded with a fair amount of dirt and debris that would otherwise have just festered inside. After disposing of all the wet blankets, Nick set about getting clean bandages and replacing the binder, then moving on to cleaning and wrapping Heath's abraded wrists and the burn on his knee.

"OK, I'm done with the doctoring for now. Now, you need to eat something." Carefully, he helped his brother up to a sitting position.

"Boy howdy, Nick, you're like a tornado. I'm tuckered out just watching you," Heath said with a smile, but his voice was hoarse and none too strong. "I just - " he frowned, as though forgetting what he wanted to say, or was wondering why he was suddenly so dizzy. "I - " Heath tried to focus on Nick's face. "I think I gotta lie down..."

Nick hurried to catch Heath before he toppled sideways, and eased him down onto his left side. He tucked some blankets around him. Heath mumbled something.

"Is that better?"

"Yeah, just got a little light-headed, I guess." Heath looked into the campfire, and then at Risley, shackled to the tree beyond. "I don't like you keeping watch alone with him. You be careful, Nick."

"You bet I will. I know what he is."


	36. chapter 36

_New Mexico, December, 1864_

Being small, Heath had done more than his share of digging the tunnel that they hoped would become an escape route. It never used to bother him much, working in small underground spaces. He had done plenty of that growing up in the mines. But lately, since Linceul, he didn't know what was wrong with him. He was having a hard time with it.

He was taking his usual nighttime turn at tunnel digging. He was crawling toward the back of the tunnel, his only light the stump of a candle inside a jar. He jostled the jar while squeezing through a tight spot, and the candle went out. This was not an unusual occurrence, and Heath had in the past been content to dig and fill his debris bag in total darkness.

On this occasion, though, something was terribly different. Heath found himself near paralyzed by the blackness. The dark suddenly felt like a physical presence, pressing in on him, squeezing his chest, pushing into his mouth and throat so he couldn't breathe or swallow or yell for help. He felt he was drowning in blackness. His heart was hammering in his chest. The tunnel seemed to turn sickeningly around him, disorienting him, and he struggled not to vomit up what little food he had gotten to eat that day. Frantically he tried to think through what was happening to him. He felt like he was dying. Was the tunnel full of poison gas? Forcing himself into motion, he did the only thing he could think of to do. Back up. Get away. Just get away now.

He scrambled backward on shaky arms, his breath panting and shallow, feeling an odd numbness around his mouth and his hands. The tunnel seemed endless. As soon as he reached a spot where he could turn around and then stand, he ran for the dim light of the entrance, half-expecting the blackness behind to reach out and drag him back in.

He emerged into the root cellar, crossed the cool, dimly lit space on unsteady legs, and slid to the ground with his back against the wall facing the tunnel entrance. He was shaking all over, staring at the black mouth of the tunnel and trying to sort out what had just happened.

"Heath? Is that you? What's the matter?" A woman's voice, contralto, German-accented. She looked out at him from behind the curtain that sectioned off a corner of the root cellar as a living space for her and her children.

When Heath did not answer, she became concerned, crossing the cellar to his side. She was a strong-boned woman, with thick dark hair wrapped in a single grey-streaked braid. She wiped her hands on the skirt of a plain, but well-made dress. She knelt by him, her eyes intelligent, active as they assessed the boy who had become so dear to her family. "Heath," she repeated. "Look at me, boychick. What's the matter?"

Heath took a breath, and shook his head as though to clear it. He looked at her, confused. "I - I don't rightly know," he said. "I was fine, and then my candle went out, and then I felt like I was dying and I had to get out. I don't know what happened."

"Like you were dying?"

"I felt like I couldn't breathe, like everything was pressing in on me - " As he spoke, he tensed up and he could feel his heart racing. He began to feel short of breath. His pupils were so dilated she could barely see the blue of his eyes.

"Easy, Heath. You can breathe. Just breathe. Think of something else, something that makes you feel safe. I'm right here next to you. Think of a fine Fall day and you galloping the mail from one town to the next like you told me about. Shhh. Breathe. I'm right here."

Heath looked into her serious, intent face, keeping his eyes on hers and doing his best to follow her instructions. He trusted her, and for whatever reason, what she was doing seemed to be helping him not to die from whatever the problem was. Slowly, the terrible feeling of dread and suffocation eased, and he could relax against the dirt wall behind him.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll tell you again, there is no need for such formality. My name is Hadassah. It's been a while since I had students to call me ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, smiling up at her. "You remind me a bit of my Aunt Rachel," he said wistfully. "She was a teacher, back East. She taught me to play chess, taught me math. She never could teach me not to call her ma'am, though." He sighed. "I miss her and my Mama. What happened in that tunnel?"

"Fear, I think."

"Fear? But I've been in that tunnel a hundred times, been in plenty of worse spots underground planting charges in the mines. What's to fear?"

"I read some papers my Uncle Jacob wrote. He's a physician, in Pennsylvania. He treats men who have been in combat, who have had terrible, traumatic experiences in the war. The fear, the hurt, takes on a life of its own. He describes just the kind of symptoms you had, sometimes out of the blue, sometimes triggered by a situation or a feeling that reminds one - " She stopped, as she saw Heath go still, as though he was listening - no, as if he was bracing himself for something. "What is it?"

"He would blindfold me." His voice was matter-of-fact, but she felt as though he was speaking to her from a great distance.

"Linceul."

"Yes. And then - and then I never knew what he would do next." He had started shaking again. "Every time he would touch me, I never knew. Sometimes that's all it was, him just touching me. But he had so many ways to hurt, and he'd go looking with his hands for more ways - " Heath raked his hands into his hair, squeezing his temples, wishing he could push those memories out of his head. "I never knew what he was going to do. And when I couldn't see, it was so much worse. He loved that. I couldn't stop him. I killed him, but that didn't stop him. He's still here in my head, I still feel him looking at me, I still feel his hands, when it went black in the tunnel it was like he was all around me - " He was crying now, silently. She was struck by the expression on his face. Despite the tears, he was staring again at the black mouth of the tunnel as though it was a problem to be solved.

"Heath," she said quietly. "Heath, can I touch you? Just for a minute?" She felt it was important to ask his permission.

He looked at her, puzzled, but nodded.

She sat beside him on the dirt floor and put her arms around him. He leaned into her and rested his head by her shoulder. She deliberately stroked his hair, murmuring, "He _is_ gone, Heath. Don't let him take you with him into the dark. Stay here with the ones that love you and need you. You are not alone. Stay here."

He wept for a good while. Hadassah knew some of what had occurred when Linceul had taken Heath away from them, and she had done much to treat his injuries and help Heath recover afterwards. She had sat with him through the worst nightmares. It was heartbreaking for her. He was such a good-hearted, brave boy, and she could see the brave, good man he would become. All she could do now was show him her heart, and help him remember his.

Hadassah had trained as a physician, in Berlin and in London. In Germany, as a Jew and as a woman, she was forbidden to practice medicine, so she taught where she could and kept up her studies. Her husband Solomon was a well-respected rabbi. They decided they would emigrate as a family to America, to Albuquerque, where they had family in a growing Jewish community. The community there consisted mainly of merchants and shopkeepers, and they were eager for teachers and rabbis and people of education as their families grew. Hadassah could even begin to dream about opening her own medical practice in the wide open West.

The couple miscalculated, as their trek to their new home collided with the war between the states. Solomon had traveled ahead to establish their homestead in Albuquerque. Hadassah was unable to follow with the children before their route was cut off by the fighting in New Mexico. They were swept up in the conflict, and now found themselves under a death sentence, hiding from the occupying Confederate Army.

She looked across at the curtain, behind which slept her three children. Her twin boys, Avram and David, were not yet three years old. When they were all running for their lives that terrible night of the ambush, Heath had scooped up both boys and carried them, shepherding her and her daughter through the maze of arroyos, making sure all they all got to their hiding place, when he could have been fleeing himself in the other direction. The twins thought of Heath as their own personal playmate, and when he came back to them they could barely wait until he was healed up enough for them to tackle him and wrestle him to the ground. The boys were the first to get a smile out of Heath after he came back from Linceul. It sometimes seemed to her that Heath would seek out the boys to help keep his mind off his time in that tent.

Her daughter, Rivka, was 12. Hadassah smiled thinking of her. Was is just her age that made her such a charming mix of contradictions? Thoughtful and studious, opinionated and ambitious, yet self-denying and generous to a fault. She planned to follow in her mother's footsteps and become a physician. Always expecting the usual "girls can't be doctors", Rivka often carried herself belligerently, but Heath's honest enthusiasm and admiration of her ambition won her over immediately. While Heath was getting his strength back - not yet tough enough to take on the twins - he and Rivka would play chess. Early in their hiding, they had discovered their mutual interest, and she and Heath had made a project of carving a board and pieces out of wood and sandstone. Some of the men in his unit had teased Heath about his "art project". The two could laugh and talk together, being not so different in age. At those times, it seemed to Hadassah that she could see Heath as the 15-year-old boy he was, instead of the soldier, old beyond his years. It was Rivka who sat with Heath and cried with him when his friend Jimmy died of the influenza.

Hadassah was grateful for anything that would help her children engage in something normal, something good. Their days and nights were filled with the fear of being discovered. Heath and the other men of his unit, though they were prisoners themselves, made them feel protected, not alone in this hellish place. Her soul ached for the suffering of these men, captors and prisoners alike. The violence victimized them all.


	37. chapter 37

_Western Nevada, July, 1874_

An owl hooted. A gentle summer night breeze rustled in the trees above. The campfire crackled, and Nick drank coffee, sitting beside his sleeping brother. It would have been a tranquil, pleasant scene, were it not for the covered dead bodies of several rogue lawmen lying not far from the campfire. A peaceful scene, if not for the malignant, observant presence of Risely handcuffed to a tree, or the fact that his sleeping brother was exhausted, starved, and brutalized. _Just a lovely night out under the stars,_ Nick thought to himself. _A lovely night to sit and think and not get up and walk over there and kill the man who tortured my brother._ He sighed, checking yet again under Heath's shirt to make sure he wasn't bleeding through the bandages, and felt his forehead for fever.

"I imagine life was a lot more orderly before this boy intruded on your family. Not so much...excitement, perhaps." Risely spoke for the first time.

"Be quiet. You got nothing to say to me about my brother."

"I'm not talking about him, really. It's just that I've had a chance to learn a little bit about your family. Quite a remarkable history, truly, one in which you should have a shining place. Not the firstborn, but the son of your father's heart, embodying his love of the land, his leadership of men, his boldness and innovation and hard-working spirit. It must have been both glorious and frightening for you to step into his giant's shoes at such a young age when he was gunned down."

"I said be quiet."

"Your mother must have been so proud of you to see you take on your father's mantle with such courage. Did you feel, as you met the challenges, that you had really taken on some of his presence, his authority? That you could speak with his voice, be respected as he was respected? That must have felt glorious, tragically glorious, as though you had embarked on a divine, blessed mission, a quest for greatness."

Risely spoke in tones of genuine admiration and pleasure in the successes of a young hero. Nick did not answer.

"What a challenge it must have been when his bastard son arrived with no warning."

Nick growled.

"Am I wrong? Was it not a challenge? How could it not be? You may be fond of this boy you've taken in, and I commend your generosity. But it is naïve to think that you would have no feelings about the tainting of your father's memory, his honor - and by extension, the stain upon the mantle you wore so proudly. Think of what your father, your real family, has given you since you were born - love, sustenance, support, opportunity. But this boy - this drifter - brought you trouble, no? A stain on your good name, without which you are nothing. He is a bucket of rusty bolts poured into the smoothly running gears of your heritage. He certainly is damaged goods, if I interpret the scars upon his back correctly."

"I promised Heath I wouldn't hurt you. That is the only reason you are still breathing right now."

Risely continued, thoughtfully, as though Nick hadn't spoken. "I imagine his presence has caused havoc among your men at the ranch. Anxiety over the chain of command, anger from men displaced from their spot on the ladder by the bastard's arrival? You've wondered yourself if _he_ might not be more the embodiment of your father than you, that perhaps _he_ is the rightful heir. You've wondered if that is why your mother came to love him so, and so quickly. Am I wrong?"

"No. You're not wrong. But you _will_ have several teeth missing, courtesy of my fist, if you don't shut up." Nick stood up, glowering down at Risely. Yes, everything Risely said was true, and it was maddening to hear. It was all absolutely true, and yet absolutely not the truth that mattered. Nick could sense the wrongness, but could not put it into words. And so he interpreted his feeling of wrongness as guilt, a sign that he was disloyal or weak. He just wanted Risely to shut up.

Risely obliged with a shrug, and went back to his silent watching. Nick squatted down again and stirred the fire, checking his pocket watch. Just past 3 AM. Three hours till dawn. He brooded, reviewing the route Jarrod would have taken and calculating when he might arrive with the marshals.

"Nick..."

Nick turned, hearing Heath's voice, and could see immediately he was talking in his sleep. Usually that meant nightmares. Nick leaned over, saying softly, "It's OK, Heath, you're sleeping, you're safe, I'm right here by you."

"Nick, don't leave me, please...Nick! Where are you..." Nick could hear so much pain in those few words, it took his breath away. He put his hands on Heath's shoulders, trying to find a way to hold him without hurting him.

Heath started to pull away, fighting to get loose. He was crying out in pain from the effort, yet the pain seemed to make him struggle even harder. Fear was rolling off him in waves. "Don't hurt him - please, please stop, please don't hurt him -get off me, let me go let me go!"

"HEATH!" Nick, at a loss, finally used his loudest big brother voice in an effort to get through. He wanted to extract his brother from whatever God-awful nightmare he was in, and he was also worried that Heath would seriously injure himself fighting to get away.

Heath's eyes opened with a gasp, staring at the picture of some horror in his mind. His gaze found Nick, and held there for a long moment as a look of relief passed over his face. "Nick, you're OK, you're OK, thank God," he said softly, as though speaking to himself. He started to relax. This was followed by a grimace of pain and a long groan as he felt the effects of the wrestling match on his various injuries. "Uhhhh, no, that wasn't good," he berated himself. "That was stupid."

"Heath, you were dreaming. It was a nightmare."

"Yeah, that's a specialty of mine, all right. Glad that wasn't real. These aches and pains sure are, though. Ow." Nick helped him get sorted out into a more comfortable position.

"You want some pain medicine? We brought some in our kit."

"No. I'll be alright. And I don't want anything making me foggy. Tired enough as it is. What time is it? About 330?"

Nick never ceased to be amazed at the internal clock that Heath seemed to have in his head. "Yep. You want some broth, some food? You got some catching up to do."

"Why don't you sleep a little, Nick? I think I can watch. I'll drink some coffee."

"Uh uh. No way. I ain't sleeping. Not with that demon watching over there. You can sit up with me though, if you want."


	38. chapter 38

_New Mexico, New Year's Day, 1865_

New Year's Eve had passed without much acknowledgement or any celebration in the prison camp, nor was there a holiday the next morning. There was the collecting of the dead, the assembly for work assignment, and the chilly desert day moved ahead. The men who had drawn assignment to the most demanding construction detail lined up to receive some extra food rations. This usually consisted of a piece of cheese or a scoop of beans. Protein was in precious short supply.

Heath was glad when they handed out cheese. It was an easy food to smuggle down to Hadassah and the children. Easy was important, because the prisoners assigned to the water project construction were kept under a high level of surveillance and security. They were the healthiest and strongest of the inmates, and their assignment generally took them outside the walls to work on the system of aqueducts and cisterns that was taking shape.

Once they had received their ration of food and water, the men were shackled together in a line, and marched out to the day's work zone. Armed guards walked alongside, one every 10 to 15 yards. Today the halted near a partially excavated cistern. Bentell planned to excavate to the rock layer so it would be ready to hold runoff water when the rains started. The area was prone to flash flooding in the arroyos, usually in mid-winter and during the late summer monsoon season. He planned to create fortified aqueducts that would channel flood water from the arroyo into the waiting cisterns so it could be stored and used - or sold.

Bentell scanned the lineup of inmates as they waited for instructions. He would sometimes seek volunteers for the cistern and well digging work, but he would often make the assignment himself, punitively. Most of the men disliked the task. This young blonde one, though - his demeanor indicated something more than dislike. He seemed physically uncomfortable standing within sight of the black shaft into the ground. Moreover, Bentell had been keeping his eye on this soldier in particular. He had recently learned that this boy was the inmate his predecessor had been interrogating for some time just prior to his murder. He was, therefore, a person of interest. Bentell intended to investigate this soldier, and sending him down into the well seemed like an excellent way for them to start their relationship.

Heath kept his eyes on the ground as Bentell paced the lineup and paused in front of him. He had been trying his best to remain unnoticed by the new commander, trying to blend in and appear compliant. He was a good worker when he had work to put his hand to. But Heath was honest enough with himself to know that when he didn't like something - a person, or a situation - he didn't hide it well, and more often than not he got himself in the line of fire. He'd been labeled insolent, stubborn, uppity, and disrespectful for most of his life. But now he just wanted to stay out of sight. He just wanted to survive. He definitely didn't want to draw his captor's attention, and he didn't want to put Hadassah and her children at risk.

"Name," Bentell barked.

"Heath Thomson, 5th US Infantry."

"Not exactly, from what I've learned."

"Sir?"

"You were attached to the 5th, yes, but you are part of an insurgent sniper and reconnaissance unit that had been conducting terrorist operations out of Fort Craig until you were captured."

Heath was confused. Terrorist? He wasn't entirely sure what the commander meant by that, but he was sure he didn't like the way the conversation was going.

"There's some tight spaces down in this well that need to get cleared out today. Thomson, get roped up and get down there."

Bentell was gratified by the response this order produced, subdued as it was. After all, this youngster was a seasoned soldier. He wasn't expecting tears and wailing. But Bentell was a man who liked details, and he took note of the intake of breath, the slight tremor in the hands, the dilated pupils, the attempt to swallow in a bone dry throat.

His scrutiny was interrupted, surprisingly, by another inmate. "Commander, could I request that detail today?" This from a fair skinned, husky red-haired young man. "I'm a good digger, and I think you know I'd love to have a chance to be out of the sun for a bit."

"Name."

"Corporal Michael Peterson, sir, 5th US Infantry."

"Perhaps next time, Peterson. Thomson - "

Bentell was interrupted again, by a soldier galloping up with a written message. As Bentell stepped aside to confer with his officers, Heath turned to the redhead. "What are you _doing_ , Mikey?"

"Don't want you going down there, that's all. Climbing down there don't bother me none, but I know a little what you're going through. Not as bad, but after a bad stretch of fighting for a while I'd get attacks like that every time I was in a crowd. Most horrible feeling ever, if you ask me. Wouldn't wish it on anyone. Besides, maybe I'll find some nice rocks down there for your little art project." He laughed and ruffled Heath's hair like he was a child, knowing it would annoy him.

Heath shook him off with a grin, but it vanished quickly as he looked at the well shaft. He took a shaky breath. He knew Bentell was going to make him go down there, and he thought he knew why. Bentell wanted to make sure Heath knew who was boss. In Heath's experience, when a man went out of his way to teach him who was boss, he was usually laying the groundwork for something more unpleasant to follow. Heath sighed. "I appreciate the thought, Mikey. I'll be alright. Don't you go getting yourself in trouble, you hear?"

Bentell returned to the lineup. He looked hard at Heath. "It appears you've gotten a reprieve for today, Thomson. Scouts report rain coming above us, which means flash flooding. We will need to work in the arroyo to shore up and fortify the entrance to the waterway, otherwise the flood will wash away what has already been excavated. The cistern will have to be completed tomorrow."

Heath felt almost light in his step as they marched away from the well shaft. He felt uneasy, though, acutely aware that Bentell seemed constantly to be watching him. He was uneasy, too, about the prospect of working down at the base of an arroyo with the possibility of a flash flood that could barrel in at any minute. Still, it was a fine clear day in their part of the desert, and Heath was happy to be above ground.

Bentell had been keeping the pressure on the work crews since the water project commenced. There was a ferocious urgency to his focus on the completion of the project, the reasons for which he did not share. He was never happy with the progress made, invariably critical and sarcastic with his staff, merciless with the inmates.

Heath had known a few slave owners and brutal bosses in his day, had seen them in words and deed, but he had never seen anyone like Bentell for treating people like they were bits of machinery. He seemed to have no human feeling at all, except for himself, his work, and possibly his wife. Staff and inmates alike he would examine for their use, bang them into shape if necessary, and put them to work with a good amount of abuse as the lubricant. If the part didn't perform as he wanted, or was too problematic to repair, it was discarded. Heath could feel Bentell was measuring him, rolling him around in his palm like some rusty bolts, readying his tools to put Heath to use. But to what purpose? What did Bentell suspect, or want? Heath reckoned whatever it was, pretty soon going down into that well was going to be the least of his worries.


	39. chapter 39

_Western Nevada, 1874_

The July sunrise came a little more gently in this part of Nevada, in the treed foothills of the Sierras. The gentleness didn't last long, though, and by 7 AM the sun had asserted itself and was cooking up another hot summer day. Heath had fallen asleep for a little while longer before the sun came up, while Nick held the watch, counting the minutes until the marshals could take Risley off his hands. There was no way he could have slept, anyway. Risley had gotten under his skin. Nick was ashamed that he had even acknowledged that fact out loud, to a snake who clearly had been goading him. Nick was tired and angry, he was worried about Heath, worried about Jarrod, and most of all, he was afraid of what the marshals would do with Heath when they arrived.

Heath had woken up with the sunrise, and with Nick's help, he had gotten up to go check on Charger and wash his face in the creek. He was moving slow and painful, with a terrible limp, but he was moving, and Heath sure felt grateful for that. He had to admit Nick had done a fine job patching him up last night. Standing by Charger, he absently rubbed the horses forehead while he watched Nick go tend to Risely. Silently, Nick unlocked the handcuffs, and walked the warden to the edge of the campsite to take care of his morning needs, covering him all the while with his sidearm. Then he gave him a drink from a canteen, and restrained him again at the tree. Heath saw Risley try to speak to Nick, but Nick barked at him to be quiet and walked quickly away. Nick was clearly bothered by Risley, anxious in a way that made Heath wonder if they had had words during the night.

Heath (slowly, painfully) joined Nick back at the campfire, and was happy to sit and make a try at eating breakfast, though his body wasn't quite ready to manage a full meal. He laughed to himself, shaking his head.

"What's so funny?"

"Not funny, really. I was just thinking, even being beat up and shot I feel better right now than I have in weeks. Just sittin' in camp with you and bein' outside..." Heath looked around, and then his smile faded and he looked down at his coffee cup. He was silent for a moment, waiting till he was pretty sure his voice would come out normal. "Guess they're gonna have to lock me up again for a spell." He busied himself with tying up his bedroll, hoping it would hide the shaking of his hands. "You'll take Charger back to the ranch with you? I want him to be at home, safe."

"Oh no. As far as I'm concerned, boy, you're riding that horse home yourself, as soon as possible."

"Jarrod's right, Nick. They can't let me go riding off across state lines without an investigation. They have to follow due process."

"Due process. You're starting to sound like a lawyer."

"Well I sure ain't one. Glad we have one in the family, though." Heath noticed Charger lift his head and prick up his ears. The colt huffed, and smelled the air. "Looks like someone's coming."

A few minutes later, the riders could be heard approaching by the men in the campsite. Jarrod rode in with five men on horseback. Nick helped Heath to his feet again as Jarrod made introductions.

"Gentlemen, these are my brothers, Nick and Heath Barkley. Nick, Heath, this is the Honorable Judge Walter Bentley of the Federal Circuit Court. This is Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal John Smith, and these three men are his deputy U.S. marshals."

Smith was a steely looking man, grey-haired, grey-eyed, with a no-nonsense expression on his weathered face. He sat his horse in silence, eyes narrow, examining Heath for an uncomfortably long moment. He then turned in his saddle to look at Risley. "Counselor, I presume that is Warden Risley. Please release him, and include him in your introduction."

Nick made eye contact with Jarrod a he walked past, scowling, and opened his mouth to speak. Jarrod silenced him with a quick shake of his head. He released Risley and escorted him over to the group.

"Chief Deputy, your Honor, thank you for coming," Risley said. Jarrod had to give him credit for his delivery and ramrod posture, given his injury and the events of the night.

Smith nodded to him. "Warden," he acknowledged, with little change in his demeanor. He then addressed the group. "Coming about a half hour behind us are two carriages with a few more of my men. The carriages are intended for the transport of bodies and prisoners." Jarrod glanced at Heath, saw his jaw tighten at this last statement. Nick stepped over to stand by Heath's side, and Jarrod saw Heath glance quickly up at Nick and relax slightly. Jarrod realized, too, that he was seeing Heath for the first time in daylight since the day he found them in the prison camp.

Jarrod made a conscious effort not to stare, for he was well aware how uncomfortable that made his brother. Heath looked terrible, really. Jarrod catalogued what he could see; his face was covered with bruises of varying ages, his left eye blackened and nearly swollen shut. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves. Jarrod could see where Nick had bandaged the open lacerations on his forearms. Abrasions and dense bruising extended from his elbows to his knuckles. He had on a clean shirt, one of Nick's, so it already should have been a bit big on him, but it hung on the bones of his broad shoulders. Marks of the lash, and more bruising, could be seen on his skin where the top of the shirt lay unbuttoned on his chest. A dark bloodstain had soaked into the fabric of his pants from his right hip almost down to his knee.

Heath was standing fairly straight, but he was tense, breathing a bit rapidly, keeping his weight off that right leg and starting to break a sweat. Jarrod could see how pale he was under the tan of his skin. Nick moved in a little closer to Heath's side, saying something in his ear that was inaudible to Jarrod. Heath shook his head, but shifted his position so he could lean on Nick and get his right foot off the ground. Jarrod suspected that Heath wouldn't be able to stay standing too much longer.

The Chief then dismounted, and gathered his men to begin assignments. "Roberts," he barked, calling over one of his three officers.

"Yessir."

"You take charge of the warden here. I want him settled over on the far side there. Check his wound, get him cleaned up if he needs, and get him some breakfast."

"Status, sir?"

"At this time he is in custody for questioning only. He is not yet under arrest or formally charged with a crime." Smith looked over at the judge for confirmation, and got a nod. He turned back to Roberts. "At this time, however, he is not free to leave, or to communicate with anyone other than this team and his attorney, should he wish one to be present."

"Yessir."

"Carry on."

Smith watched Roberts for a moment, then approached Nick and Heath. He was tall, imposing. "I'll be interviewing you myself," he informed Heath, whose eyes tensed slightly at his use of that term.

"And what about Risley?" Nick couldn't stop himself. "Who's going to be "interviewing" him? He's the animal that caused all of this!"

Heath put his hand on Nick's arm. "Nick, let the chief do his job. He's got a lot to sort out here." Heath's quiet tone belied the anxiety he was feeling, now building to a bleak, familiar fear.

Smith didn't answer Nick's challenge, but kept his eyes on Heath. "Unlike the warden there, you, Mr. Barkley, are under arrest. Please surrender your firearms and any other weapons to Deputy Marshal Ramos." Ramos had appeared at Smith's elbow, and efficiently collected Heath's gun belt, rifle, and boot knife. He then held up a pair of handcuffs.

"Please place your hands behind you, sir."

Nick had been briefly speechless, as the reality of the word "arrest" ricocheted in his mind. "Now wait a minute, is that really necessary?" he now contested loudly. "Jarrod! Jarrod, get over here!"

"Nick, it's OK." Heath suddenly felt exhausted, light-headed, his brother's protective outburst like a flame that had used up all the available oxygen. He swayed slightly, swallowed, focused his eyes on the handcuffs being held before him. The world steadied around him. He placed his hands behind his back. He winced as Ramos closed the cuffs around his bruised wrists. Ramos straightened up, and, with a nod from Smith, moved off to begin the work of assessing the scene, documenting evidence, and gathering the dead bodies for transport back to town.

Smith continued. "I'm expecting messages presently from my men that I sent ahead to the prison. They will give me a report on their initial findings. We may be here, some of us anyway, overnight. There is a doctor en route, who should arrive later today. We are here to gather information, treat the injured, tend to the dead," - he looked again at Heath - "and take the appropriate individuals into custody, pending due process in a court of law."

Judge Bentley then added, "As a federal judge, I am here at this point in time to observe and advise the marshals on how to exercise their duty in this circumstance. I will not be making any definitive ruling until all the information is in and it has been properly reviewed. Please give the chief and his deputies your full cooperation." He spoke formally, addressing the group in general.

"Marshal Smith," Jarrod said as he walked over towards the three men, "my brother has been badly injured. I suspect he wouldn't request this himself, but would it be alright if Heath sat and rested for a bit until you're ready to talk to him? And is it necessary that he be in handcuffs at this time? I might remind you that my brothers and I are the ones who sought your presence here."

"That was before all this occurred," Smith replied. His gaze swept the campsite and then up the ridge where the fifth body lay. "We have a lot of information to gather. At this time, I have five duly sworn law enforcement officers killed while on duty, apparently shot by a fugitive prisoner who is known to be a combat-trained expert marksman. It's fine if he needs to rest in the meantime, but the cuffs stay on until I say otherwise." He looked at Jarrod and Nick. "Can either of you show my men the firing position the sniper used?" Heath flinched, causing all three men to turn to look at him, and he made an effort to regain his composure. Nick was still stunned and outraged. Jarrod wore an expression that was somehow both resigned and determined. Heath wondered what that might mean for him. His best guess was that Jarrod expected this to be a rough road going forward, and he was getting himself ready for a long hard fight. He hoped it didn't mean Jarrod was giving up on him.

Smith looked Heath up and down, scrutinizing him at his own pace, in no hurry to alleviate his subject's discomfort. "I'm assuming he would have difficulty climbing back up there at this time, to show us himself."

Heath did his best to appear calm and meet Smith's gaze. He wasn't sure which was worse, being referred to as "the sniper", or just being discussed as "he" like he wasn't an actual person standing there. His heart was racing, and he was feeling a bit spinny and sick to his stomach. Was that fear, or just injury and fatigue? Heath knew he was scared and feeling more than a little desperate about the prospect of returning to prison. He reminded himself that at least for now, he had Jarrod and Nick there supporting him - literally, thought Heath, though he needed to sit down, and soon.

This marshal looked like a hard man, for sure, and he certainly wasn't giving Heath, the fugitive, much benefit of the doubt. But a hard man who follows the rule of law isn't necessarily a bad man. Heath was hoping this might be true of Marshal Smith. He figured that having to sort out the truth of what had happened in this campsite couldn't be an easy task. _This is all my fault_ , sang a familiar tune in his head. With sadness he began to realize more fully that his brother Jarrod also had his work cut out for him, sorting out this mess that Heath had made.

Heath was pretty sure he knew his own heart, though. He reckoned he knew why he had made the choices he did at each of the trailmarkers along the terrible path that had led them here. All he could do was speak his truth. If he had to pay a price, if that's what the law demanded, he would have to be accountable.


	40. chapter40

_New Mexico, New Year's Day, 1865_

The blazing midmorning sun filled the sandstone arroyo, and Mike Peterson, the redhead, swore fluently and complained to anyone who would listen about the lack of shade and the burning of his fair skin. The only one listening - and that with only half an ear and an indulgent smile - was Heath,who had been paired with Mike to finish excavating and fortifying the mouth of the waterway. Their section was closest to the base of the steep-sided gulch and the most vulnerable to wash out by flash flooding. All morning Bentell had been cracking the whip, literally and figuratively, demanding this section be completed.

All the teams working above them had pulled back already to the top of the bank. There was some commotion up above - a rider arriving, some shouted communication, argument, and overriding it all, Bentell's barked orders. Heath strained to make out what was being said. He had a growing, urgent feeling that their lives might depend on it.

"Mikey, hush a minute."

"What?"

"Hush. What are they yelling about up there?"

"...pull them out now, sir. It'll have to be good enough, there's no time - "

There was a pause, then a guard came to the edge of the bank, waving urgently for them to collect their tools and climb up. Breathing a sigh of relief, Heath started up the rocky slope, Mike right behind him. He could see the silhouette of Bentell, pacing, gesturing. He was berating the inmates for their slow work, and the guards for their temerity in pulling the inmates out before the job was finished.

Heath and Mike worked their way slowly up the embankment. The chronic lack of food and water made their muscles weak, and they were burning with fatigue. Loose rocks rolled down the steep slope behind them. Suddenly, Mike gasped, as his ankle turned painfully in a wide crevice. They heard a sickening crack, and he fell backward, his wheeling arms reaching vainly for balance. Heath made a grab for him. "Mikey...!"

Mike landed hard, his momentum carrying him into a somersaulting fall to the base of the embankment. A small avalanche followed, and he was partially buried, scrabbling sluggishly at the gravel to try to pull himself back up the slope. He looked frantically up at the moving figures at the top of the slope. "Heath!" His voice was cracked with fear and pain. "Heath, help me -"

"Hang on, I'm coming!" Heath began rapidly divesting himself of the equipment he carried, preparing to climb down to Mike. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun slide, and froze as he felt the pressure of the barrel against the side of his head.

"Pick up that equipment and return to the lineup, boy. There's a lot still to get done today."

Heath turned slowly to face Bentell and the dark, round eye of the shotgun. "Sir -" He swallowed. "Sir, please, I can get him up here in no time, I promise - "

"Move out, Thomson. Get in the lineup now, or it'll be your hide."

Heath was frantic. He could see the guards moving in to enforce Bentell's orders, but he couldn't shut himself up. He was trying to see around Bentell's tall form, pleading with him to let him go get Mike. A guard came up behind him, grabbed him roughly by his pants and the back of his shirt, lifted him off his feet, and threw him toward the lineup. Heath was briefly airborne, then hit the dirt and rolled. The guard was in his face now, pulling him up to his feet. Heath focused on the man, and saw with surprise it was Green.

"Samuel...what...what are you doing -"

"Trying to keep y'all from getting your bones handed to you by them yahoos back there," he hissed. "They'll flatten you." He shoved Heath again, back toward the chains and shackles collecting the work team.

"Sam, please, I can't leave Mikey there, I can't." Heath was crying openly now. He had held Jimmy helplessly while he died and there was nothing he could do to keep him on this earth. There was pain and death all around that he could do nothing about, but he thought he'd die himself of misery and rage if he let Mikey drown all by himself down there among the rocks. "Please, Samuel."

"They'll kill you. Or at least they'll try."

"Please, there's no time - "

"There's a shovel about 5 paces behind you that would do you nicely to knock me off'n my feet, if you want to use that to keep me from putting those shackles back on you," Green offered. "But cut your run to the south, 'cause that crew there got handguns only and they can't aim for nothin'. And don't hurt my pretty face." He shoved Heath again, hard.

Heath fell and rolled backward, coming back up with the shovel in his hands. He struck Green in the gut, then a glancing blow to the head that was more for show, and then took off running for the edge of the gulch. He heard shouts, and the sound of pistol fire and boots mobilizing after him. A few bullets pinged off the ground around him, a few whined overhead, but Heath zig-zagged to the edge and was sliding down, trying to arrive to where Mikey was pinned without so many injuries himself that he'd be useless.

"Heath, boy, I'm so glad to see you, but what are you doing, they're shooting at you, are you crazy?"

"Yeah, think so. Keep your head down." Heath was frantically pulling debris off Mikey's legs, and had just gotten him uncovered, when he froze.

"Oh, damn," said Heath. He could feel it in the ground. A growing, steady rumble, not audible, but palpable, vibrating the stony ground around them. "Mikey, we gotta go. Up. _Now_."

"Heath..?"

"You feel it? There's no time, Mikey."

Mike looked down at his hands splayed on the rock wall of the gulch, and his eyes widened as he became aware of the rumbling tremor in the ground. "Oh boy."

"We have to get as high as we can as fast as we can. Over there, should be easier to climb."

Heath put Mike's arm over his shoulder, braced himself, and heaved the bigger boy up the slope. They were angling away from where they had descended, along a shallower path, but Heath was aiming for a rock outcropping that might give them a quicker ascent. Mike was crying in pain but struggling to help with his good leg as best he could. The other ankle was clearly broken, and badly, with a deep laceration higher up on his calf that was bleeding briskly. There was no more talking as the effort to gain altitude took everything they had. It was a slow, nightmarish, three-legged race.

They heard shouts from above - orders to halt - then Bentell's order to fire. Several warning shots whined overhead. _Rifles, now,_ Heath thought. _He sure does mean to show me who's boss._ He paused for just a moment, looking up at that tall, angry shadow. Saw the rifles take aim. Then he heaved again, heading uphill, and kept moving.

In that moment, the flood arrived.

A shallow spread of water danced over the flat-bottomed arroyo. This mild introduction was quickly followed by a howling, roaring wall of angry debris, enraged by the indignity of being pushed and shoved down-canyon by the sudden water. The whole arroyo shook with its passage. Trees, boulders, and mud tumbled together and began the surge up the walls of the gulch. It was deafening. Heath couldn't even tell if the guards were still shooting at them. All he could think about was gaining height, getting away from that bone-crushing maelstrom. Heath had boosted Mikey up to where he could get a grip on the edge of the rock ledge with his longer arms. Heath was looking for a foothold to push himself up to the ledge, when a passing tree rolled along the embankment and knocked his legs out from under him. For a brief, terrifying moment,the branches seized him up and were carrying him down toward the water. Then he fell, sliding, grabbing for anything to pull himself up, and found Mike's arm, hauling him up to the rocks.

The water was still rising, but here they could make greater gains on a more solid surface, and they worked their way up to a ledge that seemed a safe height. Heath had been in plenty of earthquakes growing up in California, but he had never felt the earth shake and roar quite like this. It was overwhelming in its power. Mike fell onto his back, breathing hard, moaning in pain. Heath hurried over to him. "Lie still, Mikey, you're bleeding bad. I've gotta tie this off."

"They still shooting at us?" Mikey asked weakly.

"I don't even know. Don't matter. This leg needs tending or you're gonna die anyway."

"Maybe they can't see us down here on this ledge. I can't see them. Maybe they think we're swept away and dead. You could run for it, Heath. Run for it. They'll think you're dead and drowned. I could tell 'em that. Take off."

"No. You'll die if I leave you here."

"Might die anyway, pal. Not like there's a doctor and medicine and such to go back to."

"I'm not leaving you here, so just shut up about it." Heath had pulled the cloth off his head and had used it to tightly wrap the laceration. He then looked around for some branches to use to splint the broken ankle. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"Only in my dignity for falling down the hill like a fool."

With the bleeding under control, Heath had a moment to look around at the ledge they were on. He heard voices up above, and knew the guards were on the move to locate them and find a position to pin them down. He didn't see an obvious way to climb down to the ledge from above. He noticed there was a deep vertical crevice that seemed to extend deep into the wall of the canyon, and he crawled closer to get a look. He squeezed himself into the crevice, and by the dim light that came in the opening, he was amazed to see what appeared to be a cave, extending to the west of the arroyo, toward the prison camp not far away.

His discovery was interrupted by the sound of more shouts, now closer. He went to sit by Mikey, waiting, watching the near west edge of the arroyo where he thought the guards would likely appear. In a few minutes, several riflemen appeared, and set up position there, calling to Bentell that they had the prisoners in their sights. The two waited, unable to climb up, and unable to descend until the water receded. So they sat through the day, Heath keeping Mike's injured leg elevated, releasing the tight bandage periodically then wrapping it up again. Once the water went down, the guards would move in, and there would be hell to pay, Heath was sure. But for right now, sitting under the sights of several rifles, he and Mikey sang any songs they could remember, watched the water roll by, and made jokes about escaping the flood only to die of thirst.


	41. chapter 41

_Western Nevada, 1874_

A gentle breeze blew through the campsite, carrying the scent of the horses, scrub pines, and the smoldering campfire. Heath breathed it in. Closing his eyes, he listened for the voice of the nearby creek. He tried to dig up some strength. Tried to shut out all the pain in his body, the fear in his mind, the sounds of the lawmen as they gathered up the bodies and recorded their evidence. It helped, a little. He felt calmer. But closing his eyes made the ground tilt under his feet, and he leaned into Nick to keep from falling.

Nick quickly put an arm around to steady him. Staggering slightly, Heath got his balance again, then glanced up with an embarrassed half-smile. "Lucky you're still standing there, Nick. I don't fancy hitting the ground right now with my hands tied behind my back."

Nick studied him, concerned. "You need to sit down and rest."

Heath swallowed against the nausea and dizziness that threatened again. "That I surely do, big brother."

Jarrod watched, but his thoughts seemed far away. "Nick, you get him settled? I'll take Chief Smith and his men up to the ridge, show him where we found Heath."

With a nod from Smith, Nick walked Heath over near their gear, and eased him down to sit. As Nick busied himself stoking up the fire again and getting out supplies for food and coffee, Heath tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable, or at least restful, position. The bullet wound in his right hip feltlike a hot poker in his side, and even breathing was painful. Finally, with a groan, Heath just let himself fall sideways. It was a relief just to lay his aching head down, even if it was in the dirt with his hands behind his back. He wondered exactly what the marshals were going to do about the handcuffs if they kept him here overnight.

Heath could see his horse from where he lay. Decided to look away, as the aching feeling he got looking at Charger suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. God, he was tired. He closed his eyes.

"Heath. _Heath_." He startled awake to the sound of Nick's worry, felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, 'm OK, just fell asleep, I guess." He looked up at Nick. "You look a bit poorly yourself, Nick. You gotta rest."

"I will, don't worry. I thought you passed out over here. Listen, those wagons are arriving, they think the doctor will be with them. Gonna have him take a look at you. And maybe we'll be getting some word back from the men Smith sent to the prison." Nick's voice was rough with fatigue and tension. He kept looking up the ridge after Jarrod and the marshals. "I got some jerky, some coffee cooking, you think you can eat something? What do they expect us to do with these handcuffs on?"

"I was just asking myself the same question." Heath tried to prop himself up on his elbow, but gave up the attempt with a grimace of pain and fell back to the ground.

"Well, I've had enough of this." Nick rose to accost one of the marshals.

"Nick, go easy," Heath said. "Ask Ramos what he can do. He's over there." Heath pointed with his chin.

Heath was glad to see Nick approach Ramos with what appeared to be restraint and respect. The marshal looked over at Heath, then nodded and walked over to where the marshals had their horses and pack animals tethered. When he returned, he brought with him a set of considerably more complicated restraints. "What the hell is this?" Nick growled.

Ramos was unperturbed. "These are standard prisoner transfer cuffs. Should give Mr. Barkley more range of movement, but will maintain the level of restriction we are required to keep in place at this point in the investigation. They will also make it easier for the doctor to tend to him, once he gets here." Ramos removed the handcuffs, helping Heath back up to a sitting position. He then quickly and efficiently placed shackles on his wrists, in front, and ankles, connected by a length of chain.

Heath appreciated Ramos' dispassionate, professional demeanor. It went a ways to help Heath push away the feeling that he was being swallowed up by a nightmare, but that feeling wasn't gone by a long shot, especially when he could see the look of horror on his brother's face. Further, the thought of a doctor looking him over was filling him with an unaccountable feeling of dread. Nick, to Heath's relief, seemed willing to let it go for now, and fuss instead over setting up bedrolls and getting some food and drink into his wounded brother. Once he had accomplished that, he sat back against his saddle next to Heath and they both looked out at the horizon to the west.

"Thanks, Nick."

"For what?"

"For being such a good nursemaid. For not picking a fight with Ramos."

"Anytime, Heath."

"You gotta go back to the ranch."

"Now, hold on - "

"Maybe not right this second, Nick, but this could end up being a long and messy situation. You've got the ranch and the family to take care of - "

"You're my family, too, Heath - "

"Exactly. This family is just as much my responsibility as it is yours, and I can't drag all of you away to take care of this mess of mine. I have to know you're all there taking care of the ranch and each other. I'm not giving up, Nick, that's not what I'm saying. And Lord knows I don't want to face this alone. But I'm trying to be realistic. This could take a while - and it may not end well - "

"OK. OK, I hear what you're saying. But we're not deciding _anything_ until we get more information, and we discuss it with Jarrod."

The brothers were interrupted by the arrival of the carriages, with four additional deputies, the physician, and a mounted courier who had overtaken them on the trail, bringing messages from the prison camp. The arriving officers hailed up to the Chief Marshal, who had seen them arrive and was descending from the ridge with Jarrod. Smith gathered and conferred with his team, and received a packet of reports from the courier.

"Doctor Agilar, thank you for coming," Smith called out. The physician was a fit, mature-looking man, slightly greying, dressed in a suit but somehow appearing at ease and in his element in the rough campsite. He climbed easily down from the carriage seat and approached Smith. Smith put a hand on his shoulder. "I want you to go take a look at the warden over there. He has a bullet wound, through-and-through we think, in his left shoulder. I'd like you just to make sure it's dressed and clean and he's fit for travel, because I'd like to send him back to town with my deputies that are transporting the bodies. The warden is going to remain in custody for the time being."

The doctor nodded. "And then?"

"Then I'll have you look over Mr. Heath Barkley here, our fugitive." He indicated Heath with a tilt of his head.

"What can you tell me about him?"

"His brother Nick there can tell you the most about his current injuries, he was doctoring him all night. What I gather is that the most acute injury is a bullet wound above his right hip."

"That's hardly the whole picture," Jarrod said flatly, joining the two men, and bringing Judge Bentley into the conversation. "Chief Marshal, I would like to make a request of the doctor."

"What is it?"

"When he sees Heath, I want his examination to include - and document - evidence of torture sustained by my brother over the weeks since he was incarcerated by Risely."

"To what end, counselor?" asked Smith. "The escape is illegal, regardless of events within the prison. And that also does not have any bearing on what happened here with the shooting - except perhaps provide motive or reason for the homicide, for erratic or violent behavior. Showing torture might in fact put Heath in a less favorable light."

Judge Bentley nodded agreement. "If the defendant was imprisoned lawfully, even if he believes the arrest was unjustified or mistaken, it is still a crime to escape."

"Your Honor, I hope to prove that the arrest and incarceration were unlawful. In which case, I want further evidence on which to charge Risely."

"If you can't prove it was an unlawful arrest, counselor, you're putting your brother on some dangerous ground." Smith looked past Jarrod at the young man, in chains, sitting with head bowed by the campfire. His brother Nick appeared to have fallen asleep by his side. "Further, he would have to agree to the doctor's findings being used as evidence, and I expect you might meet some resistance there."

At that moment, four of his deputies opened one of the carriages, and, removing a stretcher, began the process of transferring the five dead men to the transport. Smith watched their approach to the first body, but then his attention was drawn to movement by the campfire. Heath had seen, too, what the deputies were doing, and he was struggling to his feet. He was, in fact, making a mighty effort and using a piece of deadfall wood to push himself up. Smith was wondering what the boy was about - but then Jarrod hurried across to him and gave him his shoulder to lean on. The two hobbled slowly closer to the carriages, and then stood at a respectful distance, as the deputies brought the five bodies over one by one. Smith could see Jarrod and Heath exchanging words as the deputies closed up the hearse. Heath seemed to embody sadness in his posture, his movements - he and Jarrod talked together, their foreheads almost touching, and then Jarrod put his arms around Heath, in an embrace Heath could not return for the chains on his wrists.

Smith reckoned he and Heath Barkley were about to have a long conversation, and he was very interested in what the quiet cowboy would have to say. But he'd let the medical man do his work, and let the brothers get a bit of rest, while he reviewed the stack of reports he'd just received. He found himself hoping they might contain some kind of good news for his prisoner.


	42. chapter 42

_New Mexico, New Year's Day, 1865_

A restless breeze had come up, the flapping coattails of the more distant rainstorm that had spawned the flood. Heath was kneeling on the dry gritty ground near the edge of the embankment where he had surrendered to the guards, with his fingers interlaced on top of his head, and several rifles pointed at his back. He watched as two of his fellow inmates carried Mikey back to the prison camp.

It was understood that no medical care could be spared for prisoners. Mike Peterson would live or die - keep his leg or lose it - by the grace of God and whatever treatment his comrades could come up with. Heath fervently hoped they'd be able to get help and guidance from Hadassah (and from Rivka, she was learning fast) as soon as possible. He suspected he himself was not going to be able to help Mike any time soon.

The deafening roar of the flood had faded to a pleasant babble. Heath focused on that soothing sound, as he waited for Bentell to return from the camp and name the price Heath would pay for his disruptive behavior. He still was unclear about Bentell's interest in him. Not even Green could tell him for sure what Bentell knew, or why he had been sniffing all around Heath like a hungry dog for the past week. And now this incident...Heath was certain Bentell would take this as an opportunity to set the ground rules between the two of them. Heath would just have to wait and see what Bentell was driving at.

Dogs. Hungry dogs. Heath saw Bentell approaching from the hacienda, and with him were...dogs. "Oh, _damn_... " Heath breathed, for the second time that day.

Heath did not fear or dislike dogs in general. Herding and hunting dogs, house pet dogs, these were just fine, if uninteresting. But dogs that saw people as their prey, these he avoided any way he could. He included in this category wolves, feral dogs, and most especially, dogs trained by humans to attack other humans. He had seen these used in the Army, and by the bosses to control and frighten workers in the mines. "Oh, damn, damn, _damn_..." Heath whispered again.

Bentell approached with three attack dogs. One was a near-purebred Doberman, and the other two, siblings, were of a big-boned, Doberman-German Shepherd mix. All three were well-trained and aggressive, and Bentell thought this was the perfect time to bring them out of training and into action. If he had had them out earlier today, the Thomson kid wouldn't have made it four paces back to the arroyo after he disabled that guard.

It was a hot day, and the dogs' loud panting soon drowned out the babbling brook. Heath stayed very still, not moving a muscle from his kneeling position, keeping his eyes on the ground. He assiduously avoided eye contact with any of the dogs, which had now taken up positions only a few feet away from him, two flanking and one in front. He could almost feel their breath on his skin, and was acutely aware that kneeling as he was, they actually had a slight height advantage. Heath almost laughed. Suddenly the idea of roping down into that well didn't seem so bad.

Bentell, looking thoughtfully at Heath, addressed his watch captain. "What has been the usual and customary punishment for attempted escape at this facility?"

"You mean, sir, if we don't shoot them down where they stand?"

"Mm."

"Fifteen lashes, sir. Solitary lockup or extra work duty at your discretion."

"Pull that shirt off of him." Bentell gestured with his chin.

Heath continued to stare at the ground, unmoving, fighting the despair that was rising from the pit of his stomach. One of the guards pulled his hands down from his head and removed his shirt, tossing it to one side. He heard Bentell's footsteps as he circled him slowly and paused behind his back. Heath waited, eyes closed now, trying to hear the babbling brook behind the slavering sound of the dogs.

"It does not appear that the lash has been effective in correcting this inmate's disruptive behavior." Bentell commented.

"Haven't had no trouble with this one since - " The watch captain stopped, deciding not to elaborate on that. "That is, he's a good worker and all."

"Since...? You mean since he was held and interrogated for several weeks by Commander Linceul?"

"Yessir."

"Do we have any record or documentation of the subject or results of that interrogation?"

"No, sir."

"Sloppy. These kinds of loose ends are unacceptable. It appears I will have to reconstruct that investigation from the beginning." He was annoyed at the inefficiency.

Bentell bent and picked up the discarded shirt. He dangled it with distaste from his fingers. Heath watched sidelong, as Bentell allowed each of the dogs to smell the shirt. He circled back to face Heath and tossed the shirt to the ground in front of the boy. "These dogs would've stopped your foolishness right quick this morning. I expect you know that, because I do not at this moment see the back-talking, disruptive, non-compliant behavior you demonstrated this morning." Heath remained silent, unmoving. "Put that shirt back on." Heath hesitated, then complied, carefully, slowly.

"These three know you now," Bentell said softly, standing over him. "They can find you in a crowd. They can find you underground, or up in a tree. You try to run off again, and they'll bring you back to me in pieces."

"I wasn't trying to run off." Heath wasn't sure why he said that, except that he was suddenly anxious about the safety of their underground family, if guards were going to be following him with dogs and watching for escape attempts.

"I see. That is why you struck a guard and ran, ignoring warning shots and orders to halt."

"No. I did that because I couldn't leave a man to drown when I could do something to save him."

"Why is he worth so much to you?"

Heath looked up at this, sadness and frustration loud in his voice. "He's a human being. He's someone's son, someone's brother. Bentell, I wouldn't even leave _you_ to drown down there if I could help it."

Bentell backhanded him at that, and the dogs growled and leaned in as Heath righted himself and wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth. Bentell took a step closer. "You don't ever call me Bentell. To you I am "Commander", "Sir", or "Mr. Bentell". You understand me, Thomson?" Heath nodded, looking down again. Bentell struck him again, harder, catching Heath by surprise and knocking him to the ground in front one of the dogs. Heath went completely still on the ground, looking at one big paw a few inches from his nose, and feeling the hot panting growl and the dripping saliva on the back of his neck. He swallowed and held his breath, expecting the teeth to sink into him at any moment.

"When I ask a question, boy, I expect an answer. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Heath rasped, hoping he could be heard.

Bentell turned to his officers. "Proceed with the fifteen lashes, then return him to his unit. I will make a decision afterwards regarding his ongoing interrogation and corrective action." Bentell snapped his fingers for the dogs to stand down and follow him. They came promptly to heel, and he smiled at that, as they followed him back to the camp.


	43. chapter 43

_Western Nevada, 1874_

Smith paced slowly toward the creek that bounded one side of the campsite, an aromatic trail of cigar smoke curling behind him. He stopped by a cluster of pines, leaning back against one to look up the ridge to the north. Earlier in the day, Jarrod Barkley had taken Smith and one of the deputies to the point from which Heath Barkley had fired on the group below. As they were making the climb, Jarrod had, in precise courtroom detail, recounted the sequence of events as he remembered it. His description did not deviate from the one he had given last night, when he rode to bring the marshals to this campsite. Nor did it differ significantly from the statement that Nick had given.

The first thing Smith noticed was that they had to climb a good long way to reach the spot. Jarrod pointed out the boulder where they found Heath, and they turned to look down at the campsite. The deputy marshal let out a long, low whistle and shook his head with a very slight smile, drawing a scowl from Smith. Even in daylight, the range was daunting. Smith tried to picture making those shots in the dark, by firelight, in the condition Heath was in at the time - and making two of them after he was shot himself. It was hard to believe.

The findings at the scene, however, matched the Barkleys' narrative exactly, including where the sniper's horse was hidden, and his path of approach to the shooting point. Here was his first cover, with four expended shells - the Sheriff, the two deputies, and one for Risely. Here were the tracks as he tried to move to secondary cover, with ample evidence of a barrage of return fire from the riflemen below. Surprising Heath wasn't riddled with holes at that point. Here was the point where he was struck by one of those bullets, the point at which his tracks became drag marks mixed with a quantity of blood. And last, here was the spot where he held position to take out the man climbing the hill, and the one allegedly about to shoot Nick and Jarrod Barkley. Two more spent casings by that boulder, and a lot more blood. It all fit.

Smith scowled, staring back up at that ridge, and blew out a cloud of cigar smoke as if the swirling ash might help him arrange his thoughts into something that made sense. Despite the fact that the evidence on the ridge matched the Barkleys' description of the shooting, the rest of their story did not fit neatly with the reports he had since received from his men at the prison, or with the preliminary statement Risley had given before he was transported back to town. In fact, Smith now was faced with several conflicting narratives from various sources, each of which needed to be verified and investigated once they returned to town.

Not neat at all. The evidence here could not, at this point, give Smith any insight into motive or intent, the context in which the shooting occurred, or the preceding events to which Jarrod alluded. Smith could not proceed on speculation. He was a gatherer of facts and an executor of the law. What facts could he consider with confidence at this point?

The findings painted a neat picture of a series of events that had culminated in five dead lawmen and a wounded jail warden. His prisoner had not yet formally confessed to being the shooter, but Smith expected no resistance on that point. The scene was consistent with information he had gathered regarding Heath Barkley's abilities and training. From a risk assessment standpoint, it confirmed that his prisoner was lethal even under extremely adverse conditions. Acting on the available facts, Smith concluded that he must bring Heath Barkley into custody under maximum security, and hold him in that status until all the evidence was reviewed. With that in mind, he had retained Roberts and Ramos in camp with him, sending the other deputy marshals back to town with the carriage holding the five dead men and Warden Risley.

Judge Bentley had already read through the reports and concurred with Smith's assessment, before he rode out this morning alongside the transport. Much as it gave him a headache to think about going through the stack of papers again, Smith knew he needed to share the reports with Jarrod Barkley as well. He expected that the attorney would not be pleased at all with the information coming back from the prison camp. Then Smith needed to interview Heath Barkley himself, presuming the doctor had no objection.

Over by the campfire, Jarrod and Nick had set up one of the tents the marshals had brought in with their equipment, and were sitting together outside the shelter, talking quietly, but often with considerable animation. Heath, it appeared, had finally fallen asleep on a field cot inside the tent. Deputy Marshal Ramos had placed himself so that he could keep his watch on the prisoner, but at enough distance to give the brothers some privacy. Roberts was getting some sleep in the marshals' tent near the creek, so he could keep watch overnight. Dr. Agilar had completed cleaning his instruments and himself after attending to the warden, and was preparing to look in on Heath.

A sound of distress and the sudden movement of Nick and Jarrod caught Smith's attention. They had risen and were turning to enter the tent, obviously concerned about something to do with Heath. Smith noted that both Ramos and the doctor were approaching the tent to investigate, so he felt at this point he could observe at a distance. He briefly heard raised voices - Heath, he thought, sounding terrified, and definitely Nick, whose booming baritone was distinctive. Then it was quiet. The doctor remained at the tent entrance for some time, as did Ramos, but obviously neither saw a need to intervene urgently, so Smith returned to his cigar and his contemplation of the north ridge.

Dr. Agilar lifted the tent flap with a questioning look. "Gentlemen? May I come in, or would you like me to wait a few minutes? Or perhaps I can help?" His quick visual assessment took in the tense, protective posture of both brothers. He focused on the prisoner, sitting on the edge of the cot, wrists and ankles in shackles. He was drenched in sweat and visibly shaking. Agilar could see he was splinting his side with his right elbow, leaning his weight on his left hand, which was holding the edge of the cot in a white-knuckled grip. He was speaking softly, though to his brothers or to himself, Agilar wasn't sure.

"Breathe. Just breathe. It's just fear. It's OK, just stay here, just stay - "

"Nick and I are right here, Heath."

"I'll be alright, just need to think of something else, it'll pass -" Heath murmured. "Thinkin' about that perfect water hole we found coming back from the auction in Sonora, you remember? It was so hot, and there was a beautiful apple tree hanging over the water - "

"Oh, yes I do, best swim I ever had." Nick smiled.

Heath started to relax. He released the fierce grip he had on the cot and looked down at his shaking hands. Then he glanced up at Agilar, still standing at the tent flap. He looked back down at his hands. "A doctor I knew once helped me through a bad time when I was a soldier, told me that sometimes the fear you had in the past when something terrible happened can - "take on a life of its own", I think is how she put it - the fear, it can come back at you later. I've had nightmares since I was a kid, but every once in a while it's like a nightmare while I'm awake. This, now...it's 'cause of these chains I think, and you, doc, standing there waiting to look me over. I've been chained up before, for a long time, and the man who had me then was - " Heath broke off, feeling a surge of anxiety as he tried to find words to explain. He was gripping the edge of the cot again, as he continued. "He was - well, he made Risley look like a schoolmarm by comparison." Jarrod and Nick both looked up in alarm at this admission from Heath.

"You mean Bentell?" Jarrod asked. Agilar raised an eyebrow as he recognized the name.

"No." Heath met Jarrod's surprised look. He had always had a terrible feeling that if he spoke of Linceul, if he shared that memory with his brothers, it would somehow bring Linceul back to life. That was crazy, Heath knew - the truth was that speaking of him would make him _real_ , and Heath had spent many years pretending he wasn't. The past few weeks, though, had brought those memories of pain and blackness invading at will into his mind and his body. Heath still remembered, though, how it had helped when he could talk to Hadassah about it, and she would sit with him. He felt he had to try to say something about it now, while his brothers were still here with him, to help him not get lost in the dark.

"No. Before Bentell. There was another...another _commander_ at Carterson." Heath looked at Nick, at Agilar. He saw the questions in Nick's eyes, but he didn't think he could handle saying much more about it right then. "I wanted to let the doctor here know. It's not you, doc, but I'm plum terrified anyway. Gonna do my best to get through it without giving you a hard time."

"Do you want one or both of your brothers to stay? Would that make it easier?"

Heath laughed, though his eyes were sad. "Yes. No." He sighed. "I been enough trouble already. No, I don't want them seeing me like that. I don't want to see _myself_ like that. But it helps to know they're nearby."

 _Damaged goods,_ Nick thought, remembering Risely's derisive words. _That's what he's thinking._ _And who the hell ran Carterson before Bentell? What kind of_ _a monster was he?_

"Heath," Jarrod began hesitantly, then stopped, thinking hard. He was going to tell Heath he wanted Dr Agilar to be thorough so he could possibly testify about Heath's injuries in the future. He decided against that now - not the testimony, necessarily, but the discussion of the possibility. Jarrod was acutely aware that Heath was already struggling just to feel intact and normal in his own skin. He had seen that Heath felt ashamed of what had been done to him, and that he now felt that he had created a mess for others to clean up. Discussing him like a piece of evidence would be a torment for Heath in his current condition. Right now Jarrod just wanted Agilar to be thorough so he could give Heath the best medical care possible. "Heath, little brother, whatever you need. We just want the doctor to be able to patch you up correctly, not this cowboy nursing you've been getting from Nick."

Agilar, in his brisk manner, suggested that Ramos come in and assist him, and the brothers wait outside. "I'm going to need Ramos here anyway, because I'm going to have to remove the shackles periodically to get done what needs to get done. Let's give it a try, Heath, and see how it goes."

Back by the carriage where Smith has set up his tent, a small gas lamp was burning as dusk settled in. Smith had created a makeshift desk and chair out of a crate and a barrel. He looked down at his carefully lettered summary and frowned.

 _Risley statement: claims he, Sheriff Barnes, and four deputies rode out to intercept Nick and Jarrod Barkley because of information they planned to jailbreak Heath Barkley. Possible motive: prevent scandal to family from murder and rustling charges against HB. Method: Risley states he believes Barkleys bribed Thomas Peterson and possibly two other guards (Evan Williams, Jake Moreno) to break HB out of jail._

 _Risley further states that HB was a severely violent and unruly inmate, and had assaulted and killed the camp doctor (Hector Logan, MD), hence his injuries and need for restraint/solitary confinement._

 _Risley statements corroborated by: Seth McGowan (plaintiff in alleged theft of bull by HB)_

 _Chester Harris (guard at prison camp)_

 _Documentation from prison camp:_ _Documents prepared by Peterson indicate the doctor died. Unknown if these documents are true or falsified. Doctor is missing._

 _Additional documents, also prepared by Peterson, indicate that Heath Barkley died "accidentally" in the prison. Falsified to cover jailbreak?_

 _Persons of interest:_

 _Thomas Peterson:_ _Lead guard at prison camp. Whereabouts unknown. Originally contacted federal marshal office to state that Risley, McGowan, and Sheriff Barnes had been conspiring to commit false arrests and imprisonment for purposes of slave labor, in which crimes Peterson indicated he was a participant. This is consistent with Barkley statements. Peterson also reported to marshal's office that the doctor had been assaulted by Risley, not HB, that Warden Risley ordered Peterson to kill the doctor in order to charge HB with capital murder. Peterson stated his plan was to falsify the doctor's death in order to smuggle him to safety out of the prison camp._

 _Additional persons of interest, currently missing:_

 _Lisa Peterson, wife of Thomas Peterson_

 _Jake Moreno_

 _Evan Williams_

 _Dr. Hector Logan_

 _Therefore there currently is no witness corroborating the Barkleys' statement._

 _If Peterson did break HB out of jail, this would make him (and any accomplices to the escape, including guards and/or Jarrod and Nick Barkley) an accessory to any crimes HB may have committed during the escape, including murder of the five men._

Smith shook his head again and sighed. There were too many dangling questions. The current picture made no sense. If the Barkleys and Peterson were planning a jailbreak, why would they arrange to rendezvous with federal marshals? And if Heath Barkley's intent was murder and escape, why didn't he kill Risley also?

And where the hell was Peterson?

Not neat at all. No, Attorney Barkley was not going to be pleased with these developments.


	44. chapter 44

_New Mexico, 1865_

 _I am so sick of looking at the ground_ , Heath thought. He shifted around, trying for a more comfortable position, and growled in annoyance as the movement reignited the pain in his back. In a sheltered corner of the courtyard, Heath lay face down on a collection of discarded crates that the soldiers had arranged to serve as a table, a workbench, or a sickbed, as need dictated. The lack of sleep, the frustration of being laid up and healing all over again, just the inactivity alone was making him crazy. He was on fire to get up and move, to check on Mikey and his broken leg, to tell Rivka about what he had seen in the arroyo.

He cracked a splinter of wood from the side of one of the crates, and began to trace designs in the dirt. _I need to talk to Rivka_. The image of the cave he had glimpsed would not leave his mind, and for the hundredth time, he began sketching out a map of the hacienda and the surrounding topography. He had an idea, but he needed Rivka's analytic eye. He needed her math skills as well. He had an idea of what he needed to calculate, but the mathematical steps to do that were beyond his kitchen table education.

" _Heath_." He looked up at the urgent whisper. It was Sam Green, pausing by the shaded alcove on his way to his post. He stopped by Heath, kneeling down and pretending to repair the strap of his boot.

After Heath was flogged for his disobedience at the arroyo and thrown back in with his unit, Green had checked on him, and had managed to get word to him that Bentell was planning to bring him in to be interrogated soon, within a day or two. Today Sam seemed preoccupied, worried. "I'm almost for sure he's sniffing after who took out Linceul." He paused, then said, "You know you could get me killed, right?"

"Get you killed? What - why would I do that?"

"One of my buddies - he got ideas, but he don't know nothing for sure - he says 'if I was the guy that got a prisoner to kill Linceul, the next thing I'd do is kill that prisoner, to cover my tracks. I'd figure that prisoner would sell me out in a heartbeat, so I'd wanna beat 'im to it,' is what he says."

"Sam...?" Heath wanted to look in his eyes, see what he was feeling, but Sam stayed focused on his boot.

"The worse this war goes, the crazier people get, seems to me sometimes," Sam said, his voice harsh. "Feels like the end times, folks just wanna survive."

"Sam? Are you going to kill me?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Reckon there ain't much I can do about it if you are," Heath said quietly. "But for what it's worth, I ain't plannin' to sell you to Bentell. Ain't nothin' I could buy from him be worth that."

Sam glanced over to him, and Heath could see depths of sadness in his eyes. "Sure can feel like the end times," Heath went on softly. "I don't know which way to turn some days, feel like I'm lost up above the timberline and no trailmarkers in sight to get me home. I try to keep lookin', but sometimes - sometimes help comes lookin' for me. You saved my life. You saved Mikey's life just as much as I did. He'd be dead if it wasn't for you." Heath added, "Sam, I'm sorry you lost your friend Danny. I don't think I ever told you that."

Sam sniffed and took a deep breath, wiping his eyes and nose. "We all need to get back home," he said. "That's a fact." Their eyes met again, briefly, and then Green nodded, rose, and moved on to his post.

Heath watched him walk away, not sure what to think about what Sam had said. He sighed and went back to staring at the ground. As he brooded over his latest dirt map, he heard a sound he had come to dread - the jingling of collar chains and the panting breath of dogs as Bentell made his rounds of the compound.

With the passing of the flu epidemic, and the addition of the dogs, Bentell had become a routine presence in the yard, so regular in his schedule one could almost set a watch by him. Heath listened to the approaching dogs with an equal measure of fear and anger. The awareness of Bentell watching him, the dogs tracking him, was a constant, oppressive presence in his mind. Even if he wasn't pinned down by his injuries, Heath couldn't seek out Rivka, for fear of betraying the existence of the hidden family.

Bentell had watched while the guards gave Heath his fifteen lashes, all three dogs standing by at heel. As the guards strung him up, it seemed to Heath that all he could hear was the wet sound of their panting and his own heart roaring in his ears. His attention, though, was locked on Bentell. Heath thought he was close to figuring him out. He felt, actually, that it was critically, urgently important that he figure out Matt Bentell, though he couldn't say exactly why.

When the first lash fell, Bentell stepped unconsciously closer. He appeared mesmerized, as though the violence was a thing of beauty that he was compelled to approach. He raised his eyes to look at Heath, expecting to see him defeated and afraid, but found himself transfixed by an unwavering blue-eyed stare that briefly terrified him. Bentell felt suddenly exposed, as though all of his fears and failures and anger were laid open for all to view. Blow after blow fell on the prisoner, but the eyes stayed locked on Bentell's face.

When they cut him down from the scaffold, Heath tried mightily to stay on his feet and walk back to his unit under his own power, but he didn't get very far. He fell to the ground after a few steps. As he tried again to get to his feet, he saw the guards start to move in to haul him back to his unit.

"Leave him be." Bentell stepped over to where Heath had fallen, watching as he tried to get himself off the floor.

Heath had seen the brief look of fear on Bentell's face, and Bentell knew it. Heath knew there would be a price to pay for that, for his having seen and understood. So he really would have preferred not to be down on the ground already, in front of those dogs. _Would have ended up here anyway, most likely,_ he thought, as he tried again to get to his feet and walk out the door. He felt a boot on the back of his neck, and Bentell easily pinned him to the floor, crouching to look into his face. _Here come the dogs_ , Heath thought, and grimaced as Bentell leaned his weight into him. A snap of the fingers, and the dogs came over, eager to get a taste of their quarry. Heath felt rigid, his mind blank, sure he was about to be ripped to shreds. Bentell let them explore for a few moments, watching his prisoner's face until he felt he had reestablished their proper relationship. Then he stood, pushing Heath away with his boot. "Get him out of here. I'll deal with him later."


	45. chapter 45

_Western Nevada, 1874_

 _Just breathe. Just breathe._

Heath could hear the sounds of dusk murmuring around the tent. The staccato hoot of a screech owl sounded close by, with an answering call further off across the creek. Still more distant, a coyote spun a sad spiraling cry into the air, her music weaving down through the canyons to the campsite. Heath followed that sound up in his mind's eye, tracking it up to higher ground, picturing the rising mountains and the expanse of the western horizon under the moonlight. He saw the path he would ride, smelled the dust, felt the evening breeze on his face. He ached to be away from here, to just ride away. To be free of these chains. To go home.

"Heath." The tension in Jarrod's voice immediately drew him back to the tent, the group of men all looking at him. His brothers appeared exhausted.

"You're a thousand miles away, brother."

Heath smiled ruefully. "Nah, didn't make it that far, unfortunately." He studied both of his brothers. "Jarrod, you and Nick look about done in. You need to get some rest. And at least one of you needs to get back to the ranch," he added, looking pointedly at Nick.

Jarrod silenced Nick's retort with a raised hand. "All in good time, Heath. Right now Nick and I need to go speak with Marshal Smith, as I understand he has information to review with us. We'll be right across the way, if you think you'll be alright with Ramos and the doctor here."

Heath nodded, straightening up and looking at each of them, wanting to unburden his brothers of some of their worry. "Thanks. I'm alright."

"Alright. Call us if you need anything."

Once the brothers stepped out, Heath slumped slightly, grimacing as he braced his arm against his right side. He took a deep breath and looked up at Agilar. "OK doc, it's your show."

Agilar brought a stool and folding table to the cot, setting up a gas lamp and placing his case of instruments nearby. He started with a quick exam of Heath's blackened left eye and bruised jaw, confirming the eye itself was uninjured and his jaw and teeth were intact.

"You have a hard head, Mr. Barkley." An educated Castilian accent faintly colored his speech and softened his directness.

"So I've been told."

Agilar gestured to Deputy Ramos. "Please, bring the water and dressing supplies over here by me, and then remove the shackles on his wrists. Mr. Barkley, I will need you to remove your shirt so I can tend to your back and this bullet wound." Heath complied, glad to have his hands free. He gingerly rotated his wrists. His forearms had been so badly bruised and abraded over the past weeks that just the weight of the handcuffs on his skin was painful. Heath wondered idly if they'd ever go back to being a normal color.

Agilar was gently cleaning the lacerations from the whip and removing the strips of cloth Nick had placed on his back to staunch the bleeding. As he proceeded with his exam, the doctor was noting the varying ages of the injuries he encountered. "Mr. Barkley - "

"Call me Heath."

"Certainly. Heath. What do you do for a living?"

"I work our family ranch."

"This is the Barkley spread, in Stockton, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's a big operation. A great deal of physical labor, then, I presume."

"Yes, sir."

Agilar catalogued in his mind the visual evidence of malnutrition before him. "So am I correct in assuming that you normally have a good bit more - how do you say it - meat on your bones? Doing the work you do?" There was a pause. After a moment, Heath nodded, looking at the floor. "And so - how long has it been since you've had anything like normal food?"

Heath now chuckled quietly. "Well, if Nick were here, that just begs for a joke about whether my trail cooking counts as normal food. But if it does, that would have been -" Heath paused. He didn't know. This sudden realization - the disturbing feeling of seeing suddenly that he couldn't see - pressed in on him, threatening to create another round of panic. A bit desperately, he pushed the feeling aside and tried to guess. "Maybe - maybe about 19 days ago? Until Nick's biscuits and jerky this morning. Though one of the guards at the prison camp snuck in some milk in for me a few times."

"19 days."

Ramos was listening now, his brow furrowing.

"Yes, sir."

"You were on a hunger strike?"

"No, sir."

"You were not given food?"

"That's right."

Agilar frowned. "Well, I can tell you what my first prescription will be. You won't heal from these injuries unless you start getting back to your 'fighting weight' - and I mean that figuratively, not literally - with some decent nutrition." He met Ramos' eyes over Heath's bowed head, sharing the growing outrage he saw there. "Heath, I have some other questions. My intent is to get a clear picture of your condition. Normally, anything you might tell me I would hold in confidence as your physician unless you were to give me permission to share it. Deputy Ramos is present, however, and he isn't bound by that same rule. I just want to make sure you know that."

"I understand, doc."

"I see whip marks from different times. The old scars - that was Carterson, as you mentioned earlier, yes?" Heath nodded. "But the current ones - how many different times?"

"Three for sure. Maybe a few others, there are some days over the past week that are a little fuzzy - " Heath frowned, willing his body to relax, but then wincing and sucking in a sharp breath as the doctor dabbed an alcohol-based liniment over the open areas on his back and arms.

"Three or more." Another look at Ramos. "OK. These lacerations aren't looking too bad, they look clean for the moment, though you'll have scars to add to your collection. Let me help you on with your shirt, leave it open in front though - Ramos, help me lie him back down on this cot? Support his back, like so - " Despite the careful movement, Heath couldn't suppress a groan as he lay back, closing his eyes and splinting his side as he tried to even out his breathing. "If you're ready, Heath, move your arm to the side and let me get a look at this wound." Dr. Agilar surveyed the multitude of bruises and lash marks, old and new, visible across the chest and abdomen, before he turned his attention to the bullet wound. _It is outrageous to think that what I am finding here is the result of lawful restraint of an unruly or even aggressive prisoner,_ Agilar thought, his jaw tight.

Heath stared at the tent roof, watching the heavy canvas move in the restless breeze. He appreciated Dr. Agilar's matter-of-fact demeanor. The doctor's touch felt sure and confident, but Heath thought nothing was going to make fixing that bullet hole easy. So he waited, and watched the canvas above him billow and fall in rhythm with the treetops and the crackling campfire outside.

Agilar removed Nick's bandages and did an initial inspection. "Heath, I think this is going to be a bit easier for you if I give you some pain medicine before I debride this area. I won't be closing the wound - it's too contaminated and it's been open for about 24 hours now - but I plan to clean it out, explore the extent of it, and likely pack it with a drain. I have morphine I can give you by injection. I also have chloroform, if it seems necessary to knock you out completely for this." Agilar was not surprised to see the apprehension in Heath's expression as he spoke. He suspected the young man was more afraid of the sedation than the procedure itself.

"Doc, I - I don't want to be knocked out for this - I can - " Agilar raised his hand, gently interrupting him.

"If you don't want the chloroform, I think we can get by without. I know you can tolerate a lot - I can see what you've gotten through so far without any medicine, and I haven't yet even looked at that burn you have. Cleaning and dressing that, I imagine, was a nightmare. You must understand, though, that severe pain is a stress on your body, using resources that you really can't much spare right now. I think some pain medicine up front will help you recover better afterward."

"I just don't want to be doped up, I guess, I need to be able to - to think."

"Why don't we take it one step at a time and see how you feel." Heath nodded, but his eyes followed the doctor anxiously as he prepared a hypodermic and injected the medicine subcutaneously. "I'll give that a few minutes to start working while I wash and get my surgical table set up. Deputy Ramos, while I'm getting ready, would you please apply this liniment to these open areas on his wrists and forearms, and then wrap them with these bandages."

Ramos propped his rifle on the far side of the tent, and sat on the stool by the cot as he efficiently went about his assigned task. He frowned as he worked, appearing more preoccupied and angry as he secured the bandages and then rose from the doctor's seat. Heath wondered what was bothering him. He could feel the medicine taking effect. He felt warm, sleepy, a little itchy all over, and the hot poker in his right side seemed to be slowly cooling down. He rolled his head over toward the deputy.

"You been with the Marshals long?"

Ramos looked up, surprised out of his brooding for a moment. "Me? Year and a half, come August. Was a sheriff's deputy and then was promoted to Sheriff for a three year stretch before that up at Gardnerville. Been with Chief Smith since I signed on with the Marshals."

"I rode deputy for a spell right after the war, with Marshal Frank Sawyer, outta Jubilee. You ever meet him? His territory covered the Stanislaus over to the Nevada line. I grew up around there, knew those mountains like my own hand. He taught me a lot, boy howdy, did he have some stories to tell. I liked riding with him and catching bad guys, but I think it's gotta be tough being a lawman full time. I was ready to get back to breaking horses and wrangling cattle." Heath was pretty sure the morphine was loosening his tongue. He didn't think he was normally so chatty, especially with a guy whose job it was to keep him locked up. "Your Chief seems like a serious lawman," he added, looking back up at the tent roof. "Serious."

"Yes, he is that," Ramos agreed. "Ain't no-one more serious about this job than Smith, that I ever met." The frown had returned. Ramos looked as though he was about to say more, when the doctor returned to the bedside.

"Let's take a look," he said as he sat down by the cot. He washed the area over the right hip and then draped it with clean cloths. Seeing the level of discomfort with just that preliminary contact, he gave Heath an additional dose of the morphine, and then two more over the next few minutes, until he seemed somewhat comfortable but still conscious. Heath's gaze wandered over the billowing roof of the tent. He dozed off intermittently, then the pain would yank him back up as the doctor cleaned the wound and cauterized areas that had started bleeding again. At times Heath would just hum to himself, staring up as perspiration beaded his forehead, hands gripping the side of the cot like a vise.

With Ramos' help, Agilar turned him to his side and was able to clean and close the smaller entry wound, planning to pack and drain the injury to the front. The pelvic bone up front, fortunately, was not fractured or chipped, though badly bruised. Had the surface of the bone been fractured, the risk of infection penetrating the bone would be very high. Such an infection would likely be fatal.

Settled back on his back, Heath drifted for a few minutes until the doctor moved on to the burned leg. That procedure, while nowhere near as painful as it had been two weeks ago, was still plenty uncomfortable. Agilar was nevertheless impressed with how it was healing, as Heath described what Peterson had done to take care of it in the prison camp.

"Peterson? You mean the lead guard at the camp?"

Heath nodded, laying back and closing his eyes again. "Yeah. He was Risley's hammer, and believe me, I felt him. He was hard." Heath put a hand up to his neck, remembering. "He saved my life, fixing that leg. I don't know why. He believed Risley at first, that I attacked that doctor. But then he changed - he helped me. He must've heard something or saw something, 'cause he knew I didn't do it... and when he learned my brothers were in danger he got me out so I could protect them." Heath knew he was rambling again, but his thoughts were swerving around and the words just seemed to follow. "That poor drunk doctor. I tried to stop Risley hurting him...Later Risley told me - he told me the doctor died - he told me everyone believed that I killed him, even my brothers." Heath frowned, eyes still closed, and took a shaky breath. "Told me my brothers were gone and I was gonna hang but maybe they wouldn't hang me if I confessed." Heath felt like his tongue was getting thicker as his speech slurred and his thoughts wandered. "But then my brothers came back for me." He smiled. "It was such a beautiful day, that day we bought that beautiful bull from McGowan and trusted him for the receipt. Beautiful day, beautiful bull, beautiful night on the trail going home with my brother Nick, him complaining about my cooking. Never woulda thought it'd end up like this. Now I can't go home. I know Smith can't let me go home, not yet, maybe never...but at least I got Nick out of that camp. At least Nick and Jarrod are safe. I stopped Risley from killing them. I did that. I did it the only way I could. Nothin' else matters -" Heath struggled to get his eyes open to look at the doctor and Ramos again. "Thanks...both 'f you.." He fell asleep. Reluctantly, Ramos moved to the cot and replaced the shackles on Heath's wrists.

"Doc, when you head over to your wagon, can you roust Roberts so he can relieve me? I gotta talk to Smith about this guy."

"Certainly, Deputy. I need a conversation with Smith myself."

"Sounds like I'd better make another pot of coffee, if we're all going to be up having a conversation," Smith said, standing in the tent flap. His face was expressionless as he looked at Heath, mulling over what he had overheard. "But I expect what we're going to talk about isn't going to change the fact that first thing tomorrow, we need to bring this fugitive in."


	46. chapter 46

_New Mexico, 1865_

Resting on the wooden crates, Heath feigned sleep, his roughened hands hanging down to trail his fingertips in the dust. He heard the panting of the dogs, the jingling of their collars as they shook off the grit that seemed constantly in the air, permeating everything. The dogs paused when they reached his corner of the yard, as he expected they would. Several times a day, Bentell would make his rounds, and each time he would allow his dogs the opportunity to hunt down and corner Heath. Bentell never allowed them more than a nip or two, hadn't let them really get their teeth in, but the enticement, the possibility - the threat - was always there.

Their arrival filled Heath each time with a host of unpleasant feelings. Impotent rage was usually front and center. Frustration. Fear, of course. Anger, as he could smell the meat and fresh water on the dogs' breath that was denied to the imprisoned souls of this camp. Worse than these, though, was the feeling of violation. Always Bentell watched him hungrily, an avid voyeur, as the animals would corner Heath and vie for possession of him with their teeth and claws. That unholy _watching_ seemed to cling to his skin, soiling him, leaving him with a powerful desire to wash himself clean, preferably in a body of water far away from this accursed place.

Every day but Sundays. On those days, Bentell would step out with his wife, attending church morning and afternoon. His schedule never varied. They both dressed in clean, well-made, somber clothing that fitted their formal, pious bearing on these days. Bentell himself would occasionally preach, and often led the afternoon Bible study. He encouraged all of his off-duty staff to attend. He made careful note of who complied with that directive, and who did not.

Sam Green had shared with him that Bentell's preaching was of a hell-and-damnation variety that insisted upon a life of thrift, hard work, fulfillment of duty, and "not enjoying any of things that make it fun to be one of God's creatures on God's green earth! To hear him talk, to live proper means no fun, no sex, no foolin' around, no way. Straight and narrow, nose to the grindstone, and probably still end up goin' to the Devil anyway, to hear him tell it. He holds himself up there as the example we should follow, like he's above all us earth-bound critters. You shoulda heard him the Sunday those Army brass and politicians came through for a fly-by inspection. He was all Pastor Bentell that day, with his sainted wife, though the brass barely stayed long enough "inspecting" to have a cuppa tea and move on. Makes me wanna puke - or just go out for a drink and a dance with a good-smelling girl."

Behind closed eyes, Heath thought about the unholy Bentell who circled the courtyard, and Pastor Bentell who wanted to impress the politicians. It was a brutally, unseasonably hot late afternoon out in the sun, and Heath played possum, praying that Bentell would move on quickly. He hoped that this was not the moment that Bentell had chosen to continue his interrogation.

Heath got a lucky break that day, as a gust of wind kicked up a small dust devil that vexed the dogs and got sand in Bentell's eye. A moment later, a large rat made an uncharacteristic daytime appearance in the courtyard, and the dogs badly wanted to give chase. Bentell relented and turned them loose after the rat, while he walked toward his apartment rubbing at the sand in his eye. He would not be back around until his 10:30 PM walk.

Heath breathed a sigh of relief, but did not make any overt moves until the dogs were contained again within the warden's building. Unable to stay stationary any longer, he planned to get up and search the hacienda grounds for any edible or otherwise useful greens. He gathered himself to get up and go. He was wincing and swearing a blue streak at the awakened lacerations on his back, when a slim, silently moving soldier in a very over-sized Union coat suddenly appeared beside him, crouched by his bed of crates.

"Did those nasty beasts go for the rat I put out there for them?"

"Rivka!" Heath's happiness at seeing her was quickly tempered by worry. "What are you doing out here? It's not even dark yet. And you shouldn't be anywhere near me."

"He won't be back through till 10:30, you know that," she said, smiling at him. Then she shuddered. "It is so loathsome, the way that man stalks you with his dogs. He is like a _dibbuk m'ruach ra'a_ from the old country stories. Ugh." She shook her head as if to rid herself ofthe ugly image. "But of course he is not. He is just a weak, angry man who has too much power." Like her mother, she was dark, with strong-boned features and lively, intelligent eyes. The lack of food exaggerated the angles of her face and the natural seriousness and intensity of her expression. But her smile was a luminous thing, like a full moon emerging from the clouds. She turned that light upon Heath again, and it lifted up his heart. "Mama and the twins miss you so much! I miss you terribly. How is your back? I brought some salve from Mama."

"I miss you all too. But listen - I've been going crazy waiting to talk to you about something I saw in the arroyo during that flood. Let me show you before it gets too dark to see - "

Heath began sketching out his dirt map again, drawing in the arroyo and his estimate of the location and the extent of the cave he had seen. Rivka and Heath shared a love for maps, especially topography and orienteering. They had spent many hours sharing their knowledge with each other, Heath sketching out the contours of the Sierra Nevada and the southwest territories, and Rivka introducing him to everything she had learned about Europe and the Middle East. They were prisoners both, trapped in a gritty corner of New Mexico, but they journeyed thousands of miles together in the worlds they traced in the ground with a bit of wood.

As soon as he began to describe the cave, Rivka immediately grasped the significance, as well as the questions that needed to be answered. They bent their heads close together over the map, one light, one dark, their voices hushed as they worked to lay out the problem while they still had light to see by. Rivka studied the diagram to commit it safely to memory. "I will have to do some calculations," she said. "Tell me again what you estimate for the elevation of the cave entrance relative to the ground level of the hacienda." They talked through the problem a few more times, until she was sure she had the information memorized. "Now, let me put this salve on your back before I go back down, or I won't hear the end of it from Mama."

"What is that _dibbuk_ thing you mentioned?"

"An evil spirit. Sometimes it's thought of as an an evil demon that grabs on to a person, takes them over, inhabits their body."

"He's possessed by something, that's for certain, and it's not good. Ouch. What is in that salve? Ground pepper?"

"Something like that. If it helps, I'll get Mama's recipe for you."

As Rivka worked, Heath asked about Mikey, and how his leg was doing. Rivka's brow furrowed with worry. "We're not sure. There were two problems, we were able to fix one, but I don't know about the other. He wasn't getting enough blood to his foot, there was swelling, and then I couldn't feel any pulse there anymore. It seemed to me that part of the problem was that the fracture was so displacedit was blocking the blood vessels to his foot. So we gave him a rag to bite on, and I put traction on his foot until the bones lined up again. Poor Mikey, that was terrible for him, I know it." She brightened. "I rigged up a pulley to keep a weight pulling on his foot to keep it in place for a few days, and the swelling went down. His pulses came back in that foot, and the pain got so much better. We were so relieved."

"But then what was the second problem?"

"The big laceration up higher on his leg. We think it damaged the popliteal artery, that's the big one that comes down behind the knee. It seems like he's got enough circulation to his foot to keep the leg alive and prevent gangrene, but just not enough to actually heal the injuries. The bones are lined up now but they're not knitting together. We're just watching and waiting now to see if it improves, there isn't much else we can do."

"You're going to be an amazing doctor someday, Rivka. I can't wait to see what road you end up taking."

"And you, Heath. What road will you be taking?"

"Oh, I don't know. When I can lift my head up out of this war I've been in since I was your age, and actually think about a future, I think I'd like to start just by learning more about the world I live in...but of the things I do know, I'm probably best at horses. That's work that makes me especially happy. I'm good at being a soldier, too, but I'd like to be done with that."

"From your mouth to God's ear, Heath." She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight. He held her close, praying with all his heart for this precious girl and her family, for their safe passage out of this prison.


	47. chapter 47

_Carson City, NV, July 1874_

"Aunt Lisa, Aunt Lisa, Aunt Lisa!"

Thomas Peterson smiled as the side door of the freshly painted barn burst open, and a pack of five ecstatic red-haired children - his nieces and nephews - galloped toward his wagon. He couldn't help but laugh. His brother Mikey's kids were fond of their Uncle Thomas, but they truly adored his wife, their Aunt Lisa. It was mutual. Lisa bounded out of the wagon to meet them, scooping each one up for a kiss, then kneeling to arrange them around her for a proper head count and report.

"Michael, you have just turned 10, is that correct? And did you get the tools I sent you for your birthday? I'm not going to ask you about your schoolwork, because I know your mama is in charge of that, so of course you are working hard. Tommy, you must still be 8. It's high time you and your sister turned 9, don't you think? You're getting so big and strong, you're going to catch up to Mike Jr. in no time. Now, where is your wild twin. Artemis, my huntress, look how tall you are! Can you still run like the wind? Yes, I promise, we will have a race, but only after I've recovered from this wagon ride. And here are our little ones. Rebecca, come give me a hug. And where's your baby brother? There he is, hiding behind you. He knows you are looking out for him, Rebecca. Come here, little Sam. You are so cute I could just eat you up!"

Thomas and Lisa had never been able to have children. It was a sadness for them, especially during the difficult years after the war. Like his brother Mike, Thomas had come out of the war with a leg wound. He was fortunate to have kept the leg, but had lost enough mobility of his left hip and knee to prevent him returning to his trade as a mason. He just couldn't manage the kneeling and climbing and hauling required to get himself hired into an established business, or the hustle to start up his own. It was a bad time. Short on income, uncertain how he would support the family he and Lisa were trying to create, Thomas began to feel as though their inability to conceive a child was a punishment for his inadequacy as a provider.

To make things worse, his aging parents were bankrupt and about to lose their home. Their New Mexico homestead had fallen within Confederate territory during the war, and they had been obliged to convert their assets to Confederate currency. During Reconstruction, their savings became worthless. Thomas desperately wanted to find a way to help them financially.

When the war ended, Mike had been transferred to the Army hospital in Carson City, for further recovery from the injuries and malnutrition he suffered at Carterson Prison. On a trip to the city to visit his brother, Thomas was offered a job as guard in the recently rebuilt Nevada State Prison. It was good steady pay, and his masonry background made him useful, as the new prison was being constructed almost entirely with stone quarried on site. He was able to take on some administrative tasks when the quarry became the primary worksite for the inmates and an important source of income for the prison. Thomas made some connections as a result among the prison supervisors, and he soon was given the job as lead guard under Captain Risley at a small new labor camp to the south of the city.

Thomas liked being the boss of his crew, the big fish in a small pond. The illegal labor operation became very lucrative. The extra income allowed him to support his parents and help Mike get started learning to be a blacksmith. He and Lisa felt genuine joy in Mike's success as he overcame the loss of his leg, learned a trade, made a family with Helena.

Over the years Thomas learned not to think about the criminality of his work. His inmates became anonymous to him. His income served the greater good of his family, and he went on showing up every day to be Captain Risley's reliable hammer and chief operations officer.

Reliable, that is, until Sheriff Barnes brought in those two Stockton cowboys. Reliable, until he, Peterson, made the mistake of having a conversation with inmate 597. That inmate became a _person_ , the very person who had saved Mikey's life in Carterson Prison. And just like that, Thomas' predictable situation blew to pieces.

He did not elaborate to Lisa on the reasons for the sudden move to Carson City. He explained vaguely that there were illicit activities at his workplace, and they needed to move on. Lisa accepted this willingly - she disliked Tom's prison guard career, and she welcomed a change that would bring her closer to her nieces and nephews.

As they travelled, it had begun to dawn on Thomas the extent to which his participation in Risley's operation had buried his soul, his sense of himself, under layers of denial. It had happened so slowly, like a glacier crushing the landscape in its path. He had thought he could keep his legitimate work, his criminal work, and his outside life all in separate boxes. Early on, however, Risley's slave labor operation grew, fed by greed, and the camp ceased to serve any legitimate forensic function. As day by day he buried his thoughts and feelings about his work, Thomas realized now, he had come to feel disconnected from himself, from his future, from his friends and family. He seemed to have gotten into the habit of just not thinking about things or listening to himself.

Thomas, now, felt a tentative, flickering sense of hope as he and Lisa made their way north. He allowed himself to think of what he'd like to do, how he and Lisa might live their lives given this moment to start anew. He would linger only briefly on that train of thought, however, as he knew his break from his recent past was far from clean. He felt the lightness of having made the break for the good, and he held a wish that this could be the end of it, but he was not a foolish man, and he knew that the bill for his part in the labor camp could soon come due. In calling for the federal marshals, he had implicated himself. He then fled, with the hope that the marshals would find their perpetrators in Barnes and Risley, and not bother to pursue him, the whistleblower. Other than leaving quickly and unannounced, Peterson did not travel under any sort of disguise, and he headed straight for his closest family. He would not be difficult to find, should the law decide to find him.

He had checked the newspapers and listened for fragments of news at their stops along the way. He heard that Sheriff Barnes and several deputies were dead in a shootout up in the foothills. More important, he did not hear that any of the Stockton Barkley scions were dead or injured. Thomas felt certain that Heath had managed to protect his brothers, and that they were all on their way back to their lives in California. It bothered him a bit, that he heard no word about Risley. Certainly Heath would have killed him along with the Sheriff and his men. So why no mention of that in the news?

The barn door opened again, and Mike and Helena emerged, smiling and waving. Helena went to embrace Lisa and bring her into the house to rest and wash up. She could be heard giving orders to her three older children to carry luggage and hold open doors. The two women, already deeply engaged in conversation, moved indoors, orbited by a solar system of excited red-headed children.

"Thomas!" bellowed Mike, loping toward his brother in his distinctive and surprisingly fast gait, using a wooden leg and a short cane in concert to vault ahead with every other step. "Mikey!" he hollered back, hopping down from the wagon.

Thomas was a wiry, dark-haired man, while Mike was a fair-skinned redhead, big and bulky, his smooth freckly skin concealing surprisingly powerful muscles. It was difficult to find a physical resemblance between the brothers. They were temperamentally quite different as well; Thomas was introverted, a bit pessimistic, and tended to think before he spoke. Mikey was big, outgoing, and affectionate, and he tended to speak long before he thought things through. Their kinship became apparent as they talked and laughed together, when one could hear and see the similarities of speech and movement and mannerism.

Thomas stepped quickly over to Mike to share a warm embrace. "Damn, it's good to see you," Thomas said. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes. He loved this young brother of his, had always felt that Mike's abundance of warmth and optimism was a sustenance to him that left his heart feeling full. The pain and fear he had felt for his little brother back in '65, when Thomas was still in the Army and Mike was in Carterson, came flooding back to him. Whether Mikey was dead or alive, no one knew, but odds were always on dead, coming from Carterson. When all was said and done, only 1 soldier in 4 came out of that hellhole alive. Thomas felt suddenly 10 years worth of gratitude to that beat-up blonde cowboy for getting his brother back. Felt so much he thought it was going to burst out of his chest. He took a deep breath and hugged Mike close.

Mike stepped back to look in Thomas' face. "What's up, Tommy? You OK?"

Thomas sniffed and smiled, shaking his head. "I'm good. Just missed you. Have a lot to tell you about, though, after dinner."

Thomas planned to have a nice dinner with the family, and then an even nicer drink of whiskey with Mikey at his favorite saloon in Carson City. He would tell him about Heath Thomson and the Barkleys. He would share with Mike some of what had developed at the labor camp and why he left, and he would start thinking about what his own next step was going to be. _It sure would be fine to settle back here in Carson City,_ Peterson thought. _Close to Mikey and Helena, and the kids - it would make Lisa so happy._

Mike and Thomas, and Mike Jr., spent the afternoon unloading the wagon and distributing the unpacked items either to Lisa for household organization, or to a corner of the barn for storage, while Artemis and Tommy stalked them with bows and arrows made of string and saplings. They all cooled off by sticking their heads under a water pump, and then they joined the rest of the family for an outdoor chicken dinner. Evening fell, and Aunt Lisa made the rounds of the bedrooms to put the children to bed. She then warmly kissed her husband and brother-in-law, and sent them off to town so she and Helena could sit and talk in peace.

In town, Thomas enjoyed his brother's easy way with people, joking and backslapping his way to the back of the saloon where they could sit and talk for a spell. Mike's business was growing, in part because of his skill and his work ethic, but also because he had proven himself over the years to be both charming and honest, an invaluable combination. Mike grabbed a copy of the Carson Daily Appeal as they passed the bar. "Dave, OK if I borrow this? I want to show my brother my new ad in the newspaper!"

"Sure, help y'self, Mikey," the barkeep replied, shaking his head indulgently.

"Look at this, Tommy. I actually have an ad for my smithy in the paper! Now, it's not real big, and it's on page 2, but I figure page 2 is where they put all the interesting news anyway, so it'll be seen plenty. How about that? I feel like a real businessman now. Mike Jr. wants to learn the trade too, which is fine, but Helena will have him finish his learning first, then he can apprentice if he wants." Mike was beaming.

"Mikey, that is terrific," Thomas said with sincerity. He shook open the paper to page 2. "Let me see. I gotta see my brother's name in print. You should mail a copy to the folks, they'll be proud."

"You think I haven't done that already?" Mike laughed.

Thomas' laugh was cut short as he read the headline of a brief article halfway down the page.

 ** _Tuesday, July 8, 1874_**

 ** _Gardenerville, NV_**

 ** _Massacre in Leviathan Canyon: Shooter in Custody of Federal Marshals for Sniper Killing of 5 Lawmen_**


	48. chapter 48

_Note: As I understand it, historically, the Confederate Army in New Mexico was defeated in Mesilla in June of 1862, and had retreated into Texas by July of 1862. For this story, I've taken fictional liberties with the Civil War timeline to place events during 1864-65._

 _New_ _Mexico, January, 1865_

"Line up for work detail!"

Heath sat on the wooden crate, rolling his shoulders and marveling at how much better his back felt after just one night of Hadassah's salve. He told himself he would have to get that recipe and commit it to memory. He looked wistfully at the men lining up for work detail. Heath was blacklisted from any kind of labor that might involve extra food or freedom of movement. Bentell could be quite inventive when it came to punitive work assignments, however, and Heath wondered what the warden might have in mind for him.

He waited. Sam had told him it was today Bentell planned to come for him. There was nowhere and no way to run. So he waited and watched the sunrise, trying to hear the sounds of the waking desert beyond the murmurs and shouts of the prison camp.

Right on time, the warden and his dogs entered the courtyard, crossing directly to him, this time accompanied by two armed guards. Heath sat up a little straighter, keeping his face impassive, and forced himself to meet the warden's gaze without flinching as Bentell stopped in front of him. His mouth was too dry to swallow, his heart was pounding in his chest, and there was nothing Heath wanted to do more than get up off that crate and back away from the dogs and the guards with their manacles.

Silently, Bentell studied him with satisfaction, approving the fear radiating from the boy, as well as his efforts to hide it. Then he nodded, and the guards moved in quickly, shackling Heath's wrists and ankles. They hustled him across the yard toward the old hacienda storehouse, whose windowless stalls had, when needed, served nicely as solitary confinement. The other prisoners, and especially those of his unit, watched surreptitiously as Heath was pushed through the old stone archway that led into the storage building and was lost to view.

It was dim inside the storehouse, the dusty air swirling sluggishly in the few beams of sunlight that filtered through the boarded windows. As his eyes adjusted, Heath could make out the line of heavy wooden doors along the back wall of the building. They had each been fitted with a padlock or a drop bar so they could be locked from the outside, though the cells were currently unoccupied. A shove from one of the guards directed Heath to the far corner cell, the door to which stood open and waiting.

Bentell had chosen this particular cell for a reason. It was configured differently than the other stalls, which were 9x9 feet square with an 8 foot ceiling. This last cell was no wider than the doorway. It was over 20 feet long and sloped downward, extending beyond the rear wall of the storage building and underground into the earthen hill that buttressed the back of the structure. The ceiling began at 8 feet but sloped quickly down to 5 feet high at the back of the corridor, where the floor widened very slightly to a roughly 4 by 4 foot space. Since he had arrived at Carterson, Bentell had wondered idly what the original intent had been for this odd room, and while he still did not know, he was pleased to have found a good use for it. He anticipated that this venue would give him excellent leverage in his questioning of this prisoner regarding the events preceding Linceul's death. Bentell imagined, in fact, that he would rapidly learn not only who murdered the commander, but also the intelligence that Linceul was trying to discover through his interrogation of this boy. He could already taste the satisfaction of writing up such a report for his superiors.

 _OK_ , Heath thought, standing at the entrance to the cell. _He's found something just as bad as sending me into a well. Maybe worse. At least in a well those dogs can't come after me._

"Cuff his hands behind his back."

 _Damn_ , Heath thought. _This is not good._

Bentell walked up behind him, and shoved Heath into the cell. The shackles on his ankles made it impossible to keep his balance. Without his hands to protect himself, Heath did his best to tuck up and roll as he hit the ground, grunting with pain as his torn up back and shoulders took the brunt of the landing. Pushing with his feet, he was able to lean a shoulder into the dirt wall of the cell to give himself some leverage to rise and back away. As he expected, Bentell advanced on him, followed closely by his hellhounds, who were focused and eager for their daily sport. As he retreated, Heath felt the walls and ceiling of the cell closing in on him, sensed the blackness behind him in the tunnel reaching out to suffocate him. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs. The dim light of the cell doorway seemed to recede to an impossible distance behind the panting wet teeth of the dogs.

"So, Thomson. You could be out of here in short order, if you cooperate."

"Cooperate, sir?" Heath croaked, his words barely audible to him over the roaring in his ears.

"Yes. Cooperate. Provide answers to my questions regarding the late Commander Linceul. Specifically, what information did he seek from you, and who killed him. Answer those questions to my satisfaction, and you may leave this cell immediately."

 _Leave. Go outside. I want to leave. Please let me out._

"Well, Thomson?"

The dogs crept slightly forward. Heath retreated, his breath rapid and harsh, his eyes shifting from the dogs, to Bentell, to the door, and back to the dogs. Bentell stepped closer himself, pleased to see none of the defiance he had seen in Heath at the whipping post. He smiled slightly as Heath seemed to be trying to speak.

"I….he.." Heath swallowed. At the sound of his voice, one of the dogs growled.

"He what?" Another step forward. Heath backed up. His lips were numb, and he was acutely aware of his hands cuffed behind his back. He could barely think, as an image of canine jaws crushing his unprotected throat filled his mind. He flinched away from that thought, shaking his head, stumbling slightly on the uneven floor so that he fell further back into the tunnel. He was hemmed in on all sides, and the advancing dogs were shoulder to shoulder, filling the passageway. _God, please, I want out, please get me out of here._

"Speak up, boy, or I'll lock you in here with them and let them have their fun. They don't mind the dark."

Heath tried again. "Linceul didn't interrogate me about anything, sir," he managed. He looked up at Bentell, knowing this was not the answer he wanted, knowing they were just getting started.

"Hmm. Didn't interrogate you about anything. For all those weeks."

"No, sir, he - " His eyes flickered from Bentell, to the dogs, back to Bentell. "I don't know what - what he wanted from me - he never asked me anyth -" One of the dogs growled and lunged at his foot, and Heath stumbled back another step, hitting his head on the downsloping ceiling of the passageway. He felt as if he was being herded into Hell itself. "Sir, please, I can't tell you what you want to know - "

"Can't - or won't?"

 _Heath, focus, damnit._ He had expected these questions from Bentell. He had thought he had a plan, some idea of how he'd handle this conversation. He groped blindly for that plan now, as the teeth and the suffocating darkness and the irons on his wrists were rendering thought almost impossible. Words fled from him.

"I don't know - " he spoke as if to himself, some of the despair and confusion he had truly felt with Linceul coming through in his voice. "Sometimes I thought he just wanted to watch me die."

"Did you kill him?" Bentell raised his voice, impatient. The dogs snarled.

"I was - I was almost dead when he was killed. I could barely walk. I was locked up in the brig by then because he was tired of me."

Bentell smiled and shook his head. He turned on his heel and walked out the door of the cell, the two guards in his wake. The dogs remained.

Heath's eyes widened in alarm. "Sir, wait, please don't - sir -" Heath started to move toward the door, and was brought up short as all three dogs crouched and bared their teeth in response. "Please - "

Bentell spun in the doorway, a tall silhouette. "You forget, I know who and what you are, Thomson. You are a killer. You could have both feet in the grave and one arm missing, and I reckon you'd still be able to kill Linceul. I'll give you a few minutes to gather your thoughts into something more believable." He stepped back, releasing the dogs from their restraint with a command. " _Fass_!" And then he slammed the door closed, plunging them all into blackness.

The alpha dog lunged.

On pure reflex, Heath turned and ducked. The lead dog's attack, aimed squarely at his throat, passed instead over his shoulders. He cried out in pain as the animal's nails ripped into his back, as she clawed for purchase on her prey. She spun and attacked again, driving him back toward the door and the other two dogs.

As he staggered backward, he twisted again, this time catching her attack with his shoulder. As her jaws closed on the muscle of his upper arm, one of the other dogs lunged in to latch on to his leg. He fell hard, landing on the third dog, who began thrashing, snapping, and clawing indiscriminately to get out from under and join the fray, slashing Heath and the other dogs repeatedly with teeth and nails in the process. This created some confusion among the beasts as they briefly scuffled with each other, and Heath rolled to one side, desperately trying to disengage from the snarling tangle of teeth and claws.

It seemed to Heath there was nothing left inside him but pain and panic as he crawled frantically upward toward the door to put some little distance between him and the quarreling dogs. His only thought was to curl up close to the wall, and hope Bentell decided to open the door before the animals ripped his throat out.

The dogs sorted themselves out quickly, and the alpha dog again took the lead. They were effective predators in the dim light of dusk and twilight, but pitch black tunnels were not a familiar hunting ground. Their eyes were not of much more use than Heath's in total darkness, but with their prey cornered and so close at hand, the scent and sound was all they needed. They advanced, more cautiously this time, the alpha growling low in her chest.

Heath came up against the door, panting and crying in pain. Was anyone still out there? If Bentell meant for him to die in here, would he have left and gone to eat breakfast, or would he want to stay and listen? Heath pulled his legs up under him and rested his forehead on his knees as he leaned against the door. He heard nothing outside the door. He was afraid to call out, afraid it would provoke the finishing attack from the dogs, but he was even more afraid to think it was futile, that there was no one out there to listen.

"Help -" he rasped. He coughed and tried again. "Please let me out. Please - " The alpha sprang with a guttural bark. Heath squeezed his eyes closed and turned his face to the door, sending a prayer and his love to his mama.

The alpha's attack was true, and she straddled Heath's back and shoulders, her jaws clamped at the base of his neck. Her weight and momentum brought him to the ground. His cry was muffled as she deepened her hold on his neck, pressing his face into the dirt.

 _I hope_ _she makes it quick_ , was all he could think. _If this is it, please just make it quick._

" _Aus_!"

The dog let go. She held him down with her weight, briefly, as the door opened. Then she and the other two dogs backed off by one pace, and sat, panting. Heath lay still, feeling the trickle of his blood down the base of his neck. He heard bootsteps coming close. He felt as though the ground was tilting and spinning around him, and he grimaced as he fought off a wave of nausea. Then he lost consciousness.

Two guards easily carried the prisoner out of the cell and laid him down on a low table along the wall in the wide hall of the storage building. Bentell looked down at him in the dim light. His face, relaxed in unconsciousness, showed his youth. _He is a beautiful boy, under the dirt and bruises_ , Bentell thought - then, irritated, he barked at the guards to wake the inmate up so they could get on with business.

A bucket of water appeared to do the trick. Heath coughed, tried to move away, grimacing as he strained against the handcuffs behind his back. He came fully awake as Bentell came to stand over him, all the tension returning to his face and body. He shook water and wet hair from his eyes and scanned the room - Bentell, guards, dogs, cell door. _What now?_ he thought. _He got me beat this time. Now back to the questions._ Heath followed Bentell with his eyes, as the warden sat on the edge of the table and leaned over him, dominating him with his size.

The guards looked questioningly at each other. Usually Bentell avoided physical contact, and certainly with prisoners. He preferred to control from a clean distance - one of the advantages of using dogs. But now Bentell reached out a big hand and gripped Heath's hair, pulling his head back so he could look into his face. There was no retreat available, as the man's weight pressed him down into the tabletop and the handcuffs dug painfully into his wrists. Heath winced, a groan escaping past gritted teeth, but he kept eye contact, waiting. Bentell leaned in, tightening his grip on the boy's hair.

"Have I made my point to you yet, boy? I _own_ you. I am your law and order here. I ask, you answer. I say, you do." Much as he had enjoyed watching his dogs intimidate and attack this inmate, Bentell found he was relishing the feeling of controlling the boy physically, filthy as he was. "Do you understand."

Heath opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Bentell leaned harder, and Heath yelped as the cuffs ground into the bones of his forearms. "Do. You. Understand."

"Y.." Heath coughed, "Yes..sir.."

"So let's start over, shall we?" Bentell stayed close, watching the boy sweat. "Did you kill Linceul?"

Anger suddenly flared in the boy's eyes. "I wish I _had_ killed him," he hissed. "I wish I had. I would've killed that snake in a heartbeat if I had the chance." He was breathing heavily, leaning up to meet Bentell face to face. His whole body appearing coiled to strike despite his restraints. Bentell was riveted by the murderous intensity in the blue eyes. Then just as suddenly, Heath fell back onto the table, closing his eyes. "I wish I had killed him," he said again, sounding near tears. He turned his face away. "I should've found a way to kill him."

"I see," Bentell said, buying some time to think. He hadn't been expecting that response. It appeared genuine. "You are a dangerous one, aren't you?" Bentell grabbed the front of Heath's shirt and pulled him up to face him. "I'm not done talking to you, boy. What did Linceul want with you for all those weeks?"

Heath stared back at him with an expression of defeat and hopeless anger. "What did he _want_? What did he want with _me_?" He laughed mirthlessly. "Linceul wanted _boys_. Pretty young boys he could use for sex, that he could torture and rape if he had a mind to. Union or Confederate, willing or not, he fed on this camp the whole time he was here. He was a monster. He wanted me. But he wanted me to be willing, only the Devil knows why. He thought if he tortured and starved me long enough I'd knuckle under, but his timing was bad and by then I was near dead. You ask around your soldiers, you ask the right questions, they'll tell you. It wasn't just prisoners he'd prey on. Plenty of men in this camp wanted him dead. But now - now they see _you_ stalking me all this time, coming around with your dogs day after day, and they notice. They all wonder if you're like him. They wonder if behind the Sunday preaching you're just like Linceul. Is that what you want from me, Commander? You want me like he did? _Do_ you?"

Bentell stared at him in shock, his heart racing. He let go of Heath and stood abruptly, swallowing, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and overly warm. The guards had followed every word, and were assiduously studying their boot tops. "You are an animal," Bentell pronounced hoarsely. He did not look at the guards as he turned to go. "Take him back to his unit. We're done here." He motioned the dogs to heel, and stalked out.

Hours later, at dusk, Heath limped across their enclave to check in on Mikey. The redhead sat against the wall by a pair of rough made crutches, splinted leg stretched in front of him, trying to carve a useful food utensil from a rock. "Good luck with that," Heath said. "And good luck finding some food to eat with it."

"Ye of little faith," Mikey replied. "One way or another, this'll work out. Even this useless lump of leg I have here. And speaking of, what the _hell_ did you say to Bentell? He looks plum scared to even look at you now!"

Heath shrugged. He looked thoughtfully at the horizon to the west. "Mikey, you got any idea how many days it's been since you broke your leg?"

"More'n a week, ten days maybe? Why?"

Heath laughed to himself. "'Cause I think it might be my birthday today. I'm 16. But don't tell Lt. Bradley that, cause I swore I was of age when I enlisted back in St. Louis 3 years ago, and he's liable to send me packing if he finds out."

Mike chuckled. "Well, happy birthday, young man. Wish we had some way to celebrate proper. But I do wish you many, many more, with all my heart."

Heath looked up, surprised by his serious tone. Then he smiled, ducking his head. "Thanks, Mike."

"There are rumors coming in from the outside, our good friend Samuel tells me. Word is that General Canby himself is coming south from Fort Craig, and headin' our way down the Rio Grande. Apparently the plan is to rout what's left of the Reb army from Mesilla. Sam says they're plenty nervous here because our little hacienda is right on Canby's route. Sam also says the locals down in Mesilla have raised a guerrilla resistance against the Rebs on account of them scavenging and looting down there trying to stay provisioned. California Union forces coming in from the west too, cleaning out Arizona territory on their way. Sibley and his Reb Mounted Rifles gonna be caught right between 'em. Mesilla may be over and done with before Canby even gets there. Sam says his crew is thinking we might get a visit from Canby any day now."

This was big news. They had known a while that as the Confederate-controlled areas of the New Mexico territory shrank, the boundary line was moving closer to Carterson Prison, but few men had the emotional strength at this point to dwell on the hope of liberation, Heath included. The thought of Canby on the move with his Union forces, however, brought the glittering possibility of freedom dangling so close it was hard not to reach out for it.

Hope for prisoners, however, comes hand-in-hand with fear and desperation for their captors. Heath was very aware that with the approach of Union forces, their circumstances could quickly become more dangerous, and much more unpredictable. He and Mike shared a look of worry, anticipation, and a tentative hope as Heath digested the new information. Then he shook his head with a smile.

"Boy howdy, Mike, how do you always find this stuff out?"

"Well for one thing, I try to take advantage of my crippled condition, boy. I sit and I listen. It's a skill I'd think you'd want to learn, given how... _accident-prone_ you are."

"I'll try to remember that."

"You better get the underground doctor to take a look at those dog bites, my friend. And another thing. Rivka, our little dark elf of healing, told me to tell you that "she found it". Seemed about to bust with excitement. Said you'd know what she meant."

Heath had to check himself to keep from sprinting directly to the hidden entrance to the root cellar. He took a breath. Caution remained critically important. "Gotta check it out before I can say. But maybe you're right, Mikey. Maybe this'll work out OK."


	49. chapter 49

_Leviathan_ _Canyon, NV 1874_

Jarrod knelt to stoke the campfire, leaning back as a burst of sparks leapt upward and spiraled in the erratic breeze. He looked across the campsite toward the tent that held his youngest brother. Smith had walked over there some time ago, but had remained outside the tent. The doctor and Ramos had just emerged, carrying lanterns, and the three man were talking together in low voices.

Behind him, Nick paced like an angry bull. Their conversation with Smith earlier had been upsetting to both of them. For Jarrod, the news that the marshals had so far found no witnesses to corroborate the Barkleys' story was extremely worrisome, but he spent little time on his emotional reaction. Within moments of hearing the bad news, his thoughts were again fully focused on his strategy and plans for legal defense. Nick, true to form, was furious, frustrated, and ferocious in his defense of his younger brother. He gave Smith an earful on what he thought of Risley, before Jarrod was able to quiet him. Now Nick paced, yearning for something he could do - or someone he could pummel - that would fix this and bring Heath home.

Smith and the other two men were approaching the campfire, as Roberts had arrived to relieve Ramos at the tent. As they came into the firelight, the five men all looked at each other, the emotional strain visible on each of their faces to varying degrees. Jarrod was the first to speak.

"Before we get talking about other matters, doctor, how is Heath?"

Agilar nodded, crossing his arms on his chest and stepping over to the two brothers. Nick halted his pacing to listen.

"First of all, he is resting, I think comfortably, probably for the first time in weeks. He was finally willing to accept some pain medicine. I hope he will sleep through the night."

"Medicine or no, how much you wanna bet he's up and out of bed at 4:30," Nick commented.

Agilar smiled. "I hope you're right. It wouldn't surprise me, from what I've seen of him." He grew serious. "I think you already have an idea of his condition, no? Especially you, Nick. I commend you on the care you gave his injuries last night. You did an excellent job, considering the circumstances. While he remains at serious risk for infection, what you did kept that threat at bay for now. The gunshot wound is going to take some time to heal, but it will, with good nutrition and careful attention to keeping it clean. It may need to be debrided a few more times as it closes up."

Agilar turned now to include Smith and Ramos in the discussion. "I will summarize for you the rest of my assessment. I will be writing up all the details in my report. In brief, there is overwhelming evidence here for torture. I was present for the statement that Risley gave Chief Marshal Smith, in which he claimed that Heath Barkley was uncontrollably violent and required restraint and isolation to protect the guards and inmates at the prison camp. I approached this exam with that in mind. The physical evidence, however, shows injury and abuse that goes beyond any legitimate effort to contain a difficult prisoner." He looked at Ramos, who nodded in agreement.

"I concur with what the doctor says. I can add that Mr Barkley has been calm and cooperative in our custody."

Agilar continued. "In summary, he is malnourished, having not been given food for 19 days. His torso and arms carry lash injuries of varying ages, indicating he was flogged on at least three separate occasions, possibly more. There is extensive bruising, again of varying ages, all over his body, indicating multiple beatings over a period of weeks. The bruising and abrasions of his arms indicate prolonged use of restraints. There is a healing burn on his right knee, sustained, I'm told, the night of the arrest. This was cleaned and tended to quite expertly, apparently, by the guard Thomas Peterson, who also cared for some of Heath's other injuries early on. He may well have saved the prisoner's life, when medical care was refused by Risley."

Jarrod and Nick both nodded at this. Agilar continued. "Your brother is a strong man, and determined to recover. But I have to recommend to Marshal Smith that he not be incarcerated in a facility that cannot give him the proper medical attention. He is not, as you say, out of the woods yet."

"How about not incarcerating him at all so we can take him home where he belongs!" Nick interjected.

Jarrod shushed him. "Doctor, could you please clarify your thoughts about where Heath should or should not be incarcerated?"

"My apologies, Mr Barkley. I have opinions, but that is not my area of expertise, nor is it my decision. I must defer to Marshal Smith."

Smith took a deep breath and stepped into the conversation. "Gentlemen, before we launch ourselves into a debate and discussion that'll keep us up all night, let me state a few facts and realities. I hear loud and clear the crimes of which you are accusing Mr Risley, and I intend to have my office move forward on charges to that effect as soon as I can get that message to them. Regarding Heath Barkley: first, I know the counselor's intent is to prove wrongful arrest, but until you've rounded up some hard evidence or testimony to back that claim, your client remains a fugitive who killed 5 men, and I'm taking him into custody, no matter how believable I think your story is. Second, given the nature of the killing, as well as the medical needs, it is my decision to transfer Heath Barkley directly to the Nevada State Prison in Carson City, where there is a high-security medical facility on site."

"Carson City? The State Prison?" Nick looked shocked. "Jarrod? What -"

Jarrod nodded, looking resigned. He had suspected it would go this way - he didn't see how else Smith could handle it. _Thank God I'm licensed in Nevada_! he thought, his mind racing ahead to the steps he'd need to take to get his defense set up in Carson City. "Nick, it's not as bad as it sounds. Here's what I think we should do. I'm going to remain with Heath during the transfer. I think you should get back to Stockton as fast as you can to bring Mother and Audra up to date, then you can bring them to Carson City fairly easily by rail. There's a new route straight from Sacramento over the mountains to Carson City. I sent Mother a telegram when I rode to get the marshals, and sent a follow up when they went back to town this afternoon, telling her that we were all safe but that we were still untangling the legal issues. She needs to know about Heath's injuries, where they're taking him, and she's going to want to see him."

Nick nodded, assenting, still feeling stunned by this new information but trusting Jarrod to steer him in the right direction. Much as he did not want to leave his Heath's side, he thought it might be a relief to actually be _doing_ something, to ride to Stockton and bring the family to Heath.

The thought of leading Charger home with an empty saddle, though - the Cavalry man in Nick had to turn his thoughts away from that image for fear he'd weep. Not to mention coming home to his mother without Heath. No matter what logic said, he would feel that he failed her, failed his family, because he didn't bring his brother home.

Smith stood, tossing what was left of his cigar into the campfire. "So, I think we have a long day tomorrow. Rather than drink coffee and stay up all night debating, I suggest we try to get some rest and get an early start in the morning." Subdued and serious, the men bid each other goodnight and dispersed. Jarrod clapped Nick on the shoulder, keeping that physical contact as they walked over to their bedrolls, murmuring words to calm and reassure him and help him get some needed rest as well.

A few hours before dawn, Ramos arose from his bedroll, stopped to splash some water on his face at the creek, and headed over to relieve Roberts from his watch.

"Been quiet all night," Roberts murmured, as he got up to go. "Yell if you need anything."

Yawning, Ramos settled in the camp chair, rifle leaning on his leg. He set about cleaning his revolver to pass the time. A moment later he looked up, and was surprised to see Heath standing outside the tent, testing his weight on his right leg. Not satisfied, apparently, he limped forward to the edge of the campsite and - slowly, painfully - picked up a sturdy piece of deadfall to use as a walking stick. Still in wrist and ankle cuffs, he made his way carefully over to the clearing where the horses were hobbled, grazing. Ramos watched silently, wanting to see his prisoner's intent. He quietly reloaded his sidearm and kept it in hand, following.

Heath whistled softly to Charger, and the big bay ambled over to him, dropping his head to press his forehead into the man's chest. Ramos could hear him chuckle at that, gently chiding the horse for trying to knock him over when he's lame. He pulled the horse's forelock, rubbed his glossy brown neck, talked softly to him as Charger's expressive ears followed his every word. Heath moved to the side, running his hands over the horse's legs, checking his feet, checking his back for burrs or sores. "Sorry I don't have my brushes to give you a good grooming, champ," he said. "You deserve it, that's the truth. I'm gonna miss you, lot more than you're gonna miss me, I'm sure of that. Nick's gonna bring you home. I know Audra will take good care of you. She'll talk to you and tell you how handsome you are, and she'll take you out to run. Maybe she'll even show you. You can bring home ribbons and trophies. But you take good care of her, you hear me? You take good care of her." Heath leaned against the colt's side, wishing he could wrap his arms around his neck - wishing, truly, that he could just ride off into the dark. Charger swung his head around to look at Heath, and affectionately lipped his hair. Heath stroked his soft nose. Tears stung his eyes, and he rested his forehead against the horse's neck, taking a deep shaky breath.

He heard the distinctive sound of the hammer of a six-shooter being pulled back. Smith's gravelly voice came out of the darkness.

"It'd be wise for you to step carefully away from that horse, young man."

Heath promptly complied, limping a few steps away from Charger. If they were going to shoot at him, he didn't want his horse to be in the line of fire. He felt heavy, as if sadness alone weighed enough to sink him down into the ground. He said nothing, as both Ramos and Smith approached with guns drawn.

"Drop the big stick too, please."

Heath let the walking stick fall to the ground, holding his hands where the marshals could see them clearly.

"I was watching him, Chief," said Ramos. "Wanted to see what he was up to."

"And? What were you up to, Mr Barkley?"

"Sayin' goodbye to my horse, I guess, Marshal," he said softly. "I ain't ridin' nowhere, not in these." He held up the shackles.

"I've seen people do crazier things," Smith said, holstering his sidearm. "I remind you, you are under arrest and in Federal custody. Please do not go walking off without either Mr Roberts or Mr Ramos. I do not want to shoot at you, or be forced to take additional steps to restrict your movement. Do we understand each other?"

Heath nodded, not sure he could trust his voice. Took another breath. "Yes, sir."

"Very good. I intend to sleep two more hours. Then, Mr Barkley, you and I will be traveling together. We'll have time to talk more on the trail. Good night."

"Good night." Heath looked at his wrists, let them fall. The cuffs suddenly seemed too heavy, or he just didn't have the strength. He shifted his weight, wishing he had that walking stick back in his hand. He heard Ramos come up beside him.

"Walk back to camp, Mr Barkley? Or something else you need to do here?"

Heath looked at his horse, breathed in his scent, tried to take in every detail. Then he shook his head. "Nothing else." He was starting to feel queasy and the ground was becoming unsteady under his feet. Sighing, he turned to head back to camp. The movement pulled at the wound in his side, and his right leg started to give out. Ramos was quick to steady him.

"Thanks."

"I'll help you back. We could both use some coffee."


	50. chapter 50

_Bentell's recitation is adapted from"Directions Against Sinful Desires and Discontent" by Richard Baxter, a 17th century Puritan minister. I hope I don't offend anyone. I believe people are capable of distorting almost any philosophical system into something malignant, if that's the level at which they're functioning anyway. For this story, my villain espouses a strict moralistic Protestantism, which Baxter believed would bring one closer to God. For Bentell these maxims serve instead to justify his lack of compassion and reinforce his denial of his own behavior and motivation._ _His distress over his urges comes from feeling he's been shamed or bested, not because he feels separated from God._

 _New Mexico, January 1865_

A powerful dust storm was blowing westward over the Rio Grande. Carterson Prison was hunkered down, the low buildings shapeless in the gloom. The bell tower vanished into the roiling yellow-brown cloud that soon obscured the sunset and sank the landscape into darkness. No night birds sang. The coyotes were silent. There was only the constant, moaning wind, and the answering creaks and complaints of the old hacienda.

Bentell paced in his study, glad to have a reason not to go out on his usual patrol of the courtyard. The shutters were pulled tight against the dust and wind, the study being one of the few rooms in the compound, other than his bedroom, that offered protection against the weather. Bentell had shooed his wife off to bed some time ago. Tonight he just could not tolerate her murmuring solicitude, nor could he maintain the calm, grandfatherly demeanor that Cinda expected - required - from him. He did not feel calm or grandfatherly. No. He was agitated, restless, pacing the room in a torment of shame, arousal, and rage.

 _You want me like he did? **Do** you?_

Bentell paced, his arms crossed over his chest. _Damn that insolent boy, that murderous animal! How dare he suggest something so vile. How dare he._ The wind howled, rattling the shutters and sending tendrils of dancing sand questing under the door and over the window sills.

 _They all wonder if you're like him._

This evening's muster and inspection could not end quickly enough for Bentell. Typically he would prolong such functions until he felt every detail was reviewed and he was satisfied with the responses of his staff. Tonight, though, he rushed the watch captain through a cursory report and dismissed the men without establishing the night's relief order, or reviewing the sentry's protocols in case Union forces were spotted. Bentell practically fled back to the residence, provoking questioning looks, murmurs, and even a few smirks from the men. Bentell avoided eye contact, stalking away without acknowledging the captain's salute. He had to get away. he had to - had to _what_?

 _I have to get control of myself,_ he thought. _Yes_. He began a desperate recitation. _Let every sinful desire humble you, for it uncovers the worldliness and fleshliness which yet lives in you._ Bentell was a man driven by a desire to control, even subjugate the world around him. A desire for things and people to move and perform as he commanded, in an orderly fashion and at a clean distance. The world, and the people in it, however, were messy. It was people, and their messiness, that had tripped him up, pushed him down into the muck People failing him, thwarting him, until he had reached this monstrous place, in this monstrous war. He felt full up with the muck and mess, forever trying to push it away and control it without ever coming into contact with it.

And now this boy, this prisoner, had come and ripped the cover off of something that had been hidden. Had shoved it in his face. Had shouted it in front of his men.

 _Is **that** what you want from me, Commander?_

He couldn't get the mocking sound of those words out of his head. Bentell paced, wringing his hands, trying to focus on the recitation. _That you should set so much by the creature, as to be unable to bear the want of it; is this renouncing the world and flesh?_ No. He remembered the feeling of his hands in the boy's hair, how he felt could crush him with his greater size and strength. He had to push that image out of his mind. _Remember how much your carnal desires do aggravate the weakness of your spiritual desires._ What he desired was to have his hands on the boy again. Wanted to control him, to hurt him, to make him afraid. Most of all, Bentell wanted to use that boy to relieve the unbearable arousal that had taken hold of him.

 _Let every sinful desire humble you,_ he started over. But he couldn't keep track of the recitation. _It should be a grievous thing to your hearts to consider what worldliness and fleshliness this showeth to be yet there_.

It _was_ grievous. It was shameful. _They all wonder if you're like him._ Bentell groaned, raking his hands through his hair. It was useless. Unable to resist anymore, he took himself in hand to relieve the aching erection he had been hiding and trying to ignore all afternoon. The act calmed him enough to stop his pacing, but it brought him no joy. He wondered if he had ever been at such a low point. He thought not. He wondered how it would be if he just changed his name and disappeared, started over up north. The Union Army was on its way here, he was certain. It was a lovely thought to imagine being long gone before they arrived, but he knew that wouldn't happen.

He sighed, and picked up one of several scrolled blueprints resting on the desk. They were the original architectural plans for hacienda that he found moldering in a closet. They were beautifully rendered drawings, and Bentell often found it soothing to peruse them in detail. He turned up the gas lamp and leaned over the desk, this time reviewing the clever placement of small aqueducts and water cisterns outside the east wall. Then he frowned, leaning closer, as he examined a feature within the east wall that he did not remember seeing before.

Outside, Heath ran along the inner wall of the courtyard, his face buried in the collar of his worn-out blue uniform coat. He squinted against the punishing, intrusive sand. He loved the weather, though. A big sandstorm was the perfect time to get underground and visit Hadassah and Rivka and the twins.

He lifted the trap door, hidden under a pile of empty crates, and dropped to the ground in the root cellar. It was unusually dim and quiet.

"Hello?" he whispered loudly. "Rivka? Dr. Levi?" He stepped forward cautiously, starting to worry, scanning the dark for clues. "Rivka? Where - " He paused, hearing a sound, or rather two sounds. Breathing. On either side of him. He froze. In that moment, two dark shapes launched themselves at him, and Heath went down hard, tackled by a pair of three-year-old boys.

"Mama Bear, help, your cubs are too big and strong for me. They won't let me up!"

The twins roared - quietly - in triumph, and Heath wrapped his arms around them and placed a kiss on each of their dark curly heads. Then he proceeded to wrestle them around the floor until they ganged up on him, pinned him down, and declared victory.

"I have a piece of cheese you can share," Heath offered. "If I give it to you, will you let me up?"

"Deal," declared Avram. "Deal," echoed David.

"I'm a man of my word," Heath said, and handed over the cheese. He smiled at Hadassah. "Good to see you, doc. I've missed being able to sneak down here."

"We've missed you too." She walked over to wrap her arms around Heath. He leaned into the warmth of her hug. "I'm so glad you're ok. I heard you might have succeeded in getting the _dybbuk_ to leave you alone for now. Rivka also told me what the two of you found. Is this as exciting news at it seems?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe. I hope so. Where is she?"

"She said if you came down tonight, to send you to the dead end side tunnel, you know the one?"

Heath nodded, hesitated for a moment.

"You nervous to go back there?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "But I'll be alright. Pretty sure." He winked at the boys. "See ya in a bit, bear cubs."


	51. chapter 51

_Western Nevada, 1874_

"Nick, it'll be alright. I'm sure of it. I'm traveling with the best lawyer I know. But someone needs to get back to Mother and Audra."

"I'm gonna be bringing 'em to see you as soon as I can. I just - " Nick stopped, at a loss for words. His voice was rough with worry and fatigue. He looked at his brother, his feelings, as always, written clearly on his face. Sorrow, some guilt, helpless anger, love. "Heath - "

"It'll be alright. _I'll_ be alright. And much as I want you right here at my back, big brother, you need to get home safe and take care of things there. You know that."

Nick opened his mouth to speak, then gave up on words and pulled Heath into a hug. Heath winced in pain, but he leaned into the bigger man's embrace and hugged him back as best he could in handcuffs. "I'll be back riding shotgun next to you before you know it, Nick."

Nick snorted. "Since when do you use something as sloppy as a shotgun, boy? Not likely." He pulled back, looking Heath over again at arms length. "You are looking a mite healthier than you did two days ago. You be careful. You stay out of trouble and give yourself a chance to heal up, you hear me?"

"Yessir, I do."

Nick sniffed, and wiped roughly at his eyes. He took up Charger's lead line, and mounted his own horse. "Jarrod!"

"Yes, Nick."

"You send us a wire as soon as you get to Carson City and let us know what's going on."

"I will. You ride safe, Nick."

With a gruff nod, Nick, turned his horse and jogged off south. Charger followed with his beautiful springing step, tossing his head and fussing a bit, looking back over his shoulder for his rider. Heath watched them go till they were out of sight. He pictured the route Nick would take to get home, south along the eastern foothills of the Sierras until he hit the trail that would take him west into the Stanislaus. Depending on which track he chose, he might ride through Strawberry on his way down into the valley. Heath hoped not - he didn't reckon a ride through that particular ghost town would do anything to raise Nick's spirits.

"Mr Barkley?" It was Roberts. "Step over here, please, by the wagon. We will be leaving soon."

"Wish I could do something to help," Heath said. "I'm not much used to just sitting while people are breaking camp. Can't say I like the feeling."

Dr Agilar was also preparing to leave the group and head back to town. He looked at Heath with concern. "Be careful what you wish for, son. From what I've heard about the state prison, they'll put you right to work as soon as you're able. They have an adequate medical facility there, but I worry that their idea of "able" differs significantly from mine. I do not think that work in the prison quarry at this time would help your recovery. On the contrary, I think it would put you at serious risk. I'm sending a letter with my recommendations to the prison physician, but once you're there - " Agilar now looked seriously at Jarrod. "It will be important for you to be vigilant, you understand me?"

"I understand you quite well, doctor," Jarrod replied.

Heath looked down at the chains on his wrists, feeling suddenly awkward. "Doctor, I - well, I want to thank you. My memory's a little fuzzy on the part where you were fixing me up, but it's pretty clear you did a good job. I hope I didn't give you any trouble. I'm beholden to you."

"You are quite welcome, son. You were an exemplary patient. You can repay me by staying out of harm's way for the near future, at least."

Heath looked relieved. "I'll surely try, doc."

The doctor mounted one of the horses ridden in by the Sheriff's men, his medical supplies loaded on a second. The other four horses belonging to Risley and his enforcers were on lead lines to be brought back to town by Deputy Marshal Roberts, who would be escorting the doctor as well. Within a few minutes, they too had ridden out of sight, heading south, leaving just the four men who would be travelling to Carson City.

In the sudden quiet of the empty clearing, the sounds of the canyon around them reemerged. Heath sat himself down on the warm ground and leaned carefully back against a pine tree, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He was going to be locked up again, soon, but they had a day or two on the trail before they reached Carson City. He felt he was trying to take in as much of the open air and land around him, trying to fill up his senses against a coming famine. He knew he needed to gather as much strength as he could during this ride, while he was with Jarrod, and these two lawmen he felt he could trust. Once they handed him over to the Nevada State Prison, Heath knew, all bets were off. He had little idea what to expect, but it seemed wise to him to expect the worst and prepare as best he could.

The doctor had patched him up nicely, got things to where his body could heal itself with some time. Still, he was awfully weak, and there wasn't a way to move or sit or lay that didn't hurt like hellfire in some part of his body. He had refused any more pain medication. He needed to stay clear-headed. The healing up just needed time, and not getting beat up again. Heath hoped that wasn't going to be a problem where they were going.


	52. chapter 52

_Carterson Prison, 1865_

Heath took a deep breath as he paused at the entrance to the tunnel. He let his mind skim carefully, cautiously, over the thought of Jean Linceul, light as a hand over a raw open wound that might flare into agony at any disturbance. Those weeks had given him a glimpse into a soulless, malignant void. Linceul still moved unbidden through Heath's mind, not as a man, really, but as a creature that thrived on whatever pain and misery and fear he could create. Linceul had encircled and trapped him like an evil force of nature, and on some level, Heath did not yet fully believe the man was dead and gone, killed like a mortal human being.

Unlike Bentell, there had been no shame or ambivalence in Linceul, no weakness to be exposed or insecurities to exploit. He had merely hunted skillfully, voraciously, and fed well on the despair and pain he harvested. Linceul had been a sexual predator, yes, but Heath did not really believe that Linceul's primary interest in him was sexual. It seemed with him to be a passing appetite to be satisfied, just one of the many opportunities and methods he found to torture his captive.

Bentell, on the other hand, was a man full up with need, anger, lust and insecurity. Heath had been acutely aware of Bentell's contradictory presence; the lurking voyeur that stalked the yard, hiding behind the self-righteous puritanical perfectionist that was his public persona. Heath would've been hard-pressed to explain it in words, but instinctively he knew the duality was a weakness, a point of shame and vulnerability that he could use to throw Bentell off his scent. So he would _confess_ to Bentell, under duress, about Linceul's sexual predation. And in doing so, he would call Bentell out on what Heath had sensed about him all along. He would knock off the righteous mask Bentell wore, and hope that restoring the facade was more precious to Bentell than his desire to dominate his prisoner and discover whatever he might be hiding.

For it to work, though, Bentell had to believe he was hearing the rock-bottom truth of what happened. He had to really believe his prisoner had surrendered, had been beaten down past the point of any resistance or deception. And Heath had been just about there, beaten down, spent. He shuddered, remembering the helplessness of his shackled arms at his back, the graveyard taste of moldering dirt in his mouth as the dog bore him down and claimed his neck for the kill. He thought he _had_ died in that cell, actually, for a time, until he resurfaced in a world of pain with the menacing shape of Bentell looming over him.

In that moment, Heath saw that his desperate strategy had spun out of his reach, his mind unable to recapture the words and ideas he had thought to use to deflect his enemy. He had nothing left. It was over. But then Bentell moved in to take what he wanted, and his hands told Heath everything he needed to remember, showed him the chink in the armor, the face hiding under the mask. Somehow, somehow, it worked, and his underground family was safe. For now, anyway.

Shaking off the tightness in his chest and the jitters in his muscles, Heath commanded himself to breathe and headed back into the tunnel to find Rivka. He didn't have to wait long for her to appear out of the dark, her bright smile illuminated by a makeshift lamp.

"Heath! I can't wait to show you." She gave him a quick, strong hug, then gripped his hand to lead him to her discovery. She stopped when she saw the bloodstains and torn cloth of his faded uniform shirt. "What happened? How badly are you hurt?"

"It can wait. Had a run in with the - what d'you call him - the _dybbuk_ and his pack of four-legged _dybbuks_."

" _Dybbukim_. That's the plural," she said absently as she pulled aside his blue coat to look at the deep bite where his neck and right shoulder met. She gasped. "Oh Heath...that monster - this needs to be cleaned - " She sounded near tears, her voice shaking with anger and distress for him. "They could have killed you."

"They surely did try," he said softly, his voice rough with feeling. He met her eyes, not trying now to cover his state of mind with bravado. The fear and pain of what he had just been through was written all over his face. "I thought they would."

Rivka wrapped her arms around him again, and he returned the embrace, closing his eyes. "But I gotta put that by. He's off my tail for now, and it looks like we've gotta get you and your family ready to get out of here."

She pulled back to look at him. "You know very well we are always ready. Mama swore she would never let us get caught out as we did after the ambush. We are always packed. We are always ready to run and leave no evidence behind. She has made such an art form of this I fear that when we do have a home we will never actually unpack anything.'' She scowled at him. "OK. I will show you, but then directly back to Mama to get those bites treated, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Gripping his hand again, she led him into the narrow tunnel, ducking under the timbers Heath had placed to shore up the roof when the passage was first dug. It was not a long tunnel, and had been abandoned when they came up against solid rock and could tunnel no further. Heath placed his hand against the rock wall and looked at Rivka, curious, questioning.

She smiled. "Look up," she whispered. "Reach up with your hand. Do you feel it?"

He reached as high as he could while she raised the lamp. The flame began to flare in the gentle movement of -

"Fresh air. I feel it. There's a ledge here - " He met her eyes, smiling. "Let me boost you up. Maybe you can see?"

He made a step with his hand and lifted her slight form up above his head, as she squirmed forward onto the sloping ledge with her flickering light held ahead of her. He heard her gasp.

"Heath, I can see, I can see all the way to the opening! I can see the sky! The dust storm must have passed. There's water in here as well, I hear dripping near the walls - there's a drop down to the floor of the cave from here but it's very short, I can almost reach with my hand."

She slid back down, breathless. "I knew it had to be here. Your observations and estimates were dead on, Heath. I did the math - our tunnel floor is a little under 10 feet below the level of the cave floor. I knew I had to look higher than where we were digging."

"Now we need a plan to get you out of here. We've had news a Union regiment is moving southward in our direction. I expect they're traveling along the west bank of the Rio Grande. They'll stay close to the river until they get to Timber Mountain - "

"Yes, I see, there they'd turn west - up Animas Creek?"

"No, that'd be quickest, but Animas was full of Apache last I saw. They'd have to loop a little south and then west. If they march straight here, they could arrive in as little as a week, but they might have to continue on to Mesilla. If we could get you and your family out of here, if you could make contact with the Union force - "

Heath was thinking through the problem of getting the family safely away from Confederate-controlled territory and into the path of the Union Army, preferably without running into hostile Apache on the way. If Canby was arriving soon, perhaps it would be safer for the family to lay low underground, rather than risk traversing some very unpredictable territory. They really shouldn't go out there alone without any kind of guide or protection. From a military standpoint, Heath knew, it would make more sense to send out a squad of two or three men, as able-bodied and familiar with the terrain as possible, to scout the area and bring intel to Canby's regiment. Using the cave for a large-scale inmate escape would certainly be discovered, and the inevitable scatter-and-hide to follow would probably be a death sentence for the Levi family.

As they entered the root cellar, Heath was lost in thought, and Rivka was endeavoring to stop him walking long enough to get his blue coat off so she could see where he was injured. She called out softly, "Mama, come look at Heath, please - "

Hadassah looked up from the twins, and stood to fetch her medical bag. She drew a breath to speak, but anything she might have said was drowned out by a loud clanging noise that suddenly erupted near the ceiling trap door. Then all hell broke loose.

An hour or so earlier, as the day broke, the inmates and guards of Carterson gradually emerged from wherever they had sheltered during the storm. There was a ghostly haze overlying everything. As Sam Green stepped out of the lean-to he had chosen for cover, he felt as though he was entering a purgatory world hung in a grey place between life and death. The silence was profound after the hours of howling wind. Color was gone. There was little to differentiate guards from prisoners. All were equally slow, stunned, painted in shades of sand and dust and sorrow. Sam turned slowly, taking it in. "Lord, what is this place? Surely," he whispered to himself, "surely we are caught in the Devil's bargain."

A door slammed open, and into this spectral scene appeared Commander Bentell, shouting for his watch captain. His dark form stood out starkly against the dust-covered courtyard, untouched as he was by the clay colors of mourning that had blanketed the camp. Sam followed him at a distance, observing the focus and ferocity in his face, and was suddenly fearful of what Bentell's target might be. He heard fragments, enough to see that Bentell felt certain he had found something important, something the sniper unit from St. Louis had been hiding. Sam considered this, and decided that whatever Bentell was hunting, if he found what he sought, there would be bloodshed and torture, and far more death than there might be if he failed. Sam decided he would do what he could to help Bentell fail.

Sam skirted the courtyard, trying blend in and yet also hurry to the section of yard where he would usually find Heath. The skinny Yankee kid was nowhere in sight. Sam spotted the big redhead Heath had pulled out of the gulch, still a gimp from the broken leg, leaning against the wall near a pile of boxes.

"Mike! Mike!" Sam whispered urgently. Mike looked up as Sam closed on him and grabbed his coat lapels menacingly.

"Hey, Sammy," he whispered back. "What is it?"

Sam shook him slightly, trying to maintain the confrontational body language in case anyone was watching. "Bentell's on fire. He thinks he's found something big, something you all have been hiding, something underground. He's on his way over here in minutes. You get me? He's on fire."

Mike's eyes went round. "Hell yeah I get you, Sam. Thanks."

Sam let go and moved on, wishing he could do more.

"Damnit, Heath, why'd you have to be down there now...?" Mike pushed one of the boxes out of the way, grabbing a coil of twine they had decided to use only in the most dire emergency. It ran underground, and was tied to a clump of cans and rocks on string that hung inside the root cellar. They knew full well the cellar was a dead end, a death trap, if ever the time came to ring that bell. But still, he grabbed the string and began pulling it frantically. The futile alarm clamored through the root cellar. _They're coming. They're coming._

 _Rio Grande Valley, New Mexico, 1865_

"Damn, this wagon is uncomfortable." Sgt. Thomas Peterson, of the New Mexico Volunteer Infantry, shifted his position, trying to find a way to sit on the hard wooden bench that wouldn't be an agony to his left hip. His partner sympathized.

"Sure is. Doesn't help neither, that leg of yours ain't nearly healed up enough for you to be out on the trail like this, even if they have moved you over to the medical corps. I don't reckon you'd be comfortable sitting on a stack of pillows."

"No way I was staying behind, when the General said we're headed for Carterson."

"Believe me, Tom, I know. I got a cousin there I'm hoping to find alive. I don't think there's a one of us that ain't got at least a friend of a friend locked up down there. Your Mikey, he's a tough one. I bet he's right there waiting for you when we bust in."

Tom winced as he shifted himself again, moved as much by the twisting worry inside him as the pain in his leg. "I hope you're right, Mac. I dearly hope you're right." He felt as though they were moving south at a snail's pace. In fact, they were making good time. They'd had to make camp and shelter early last night when that big duster blew in, and it took some time to dig out and get themselves sorted to move out again this morning. But pretty much all the men were of one mind, on fire to get to Carterson and get their friends and kin out of there. Their column had access to food and water moving along the west bank of the river. As long as their information coming up from Mesilla stayed good and they didn't have to rush on south to help clean up what was left of the Reb rifles, they would turn west when they came up even with Timber Mountain. They should be able to reach Carterson in 7 or 8 days from when they left Fort Craig. _I'm coming for you, my brother. Hang on. I'm coming._


	53. chapter 53

_Carterson Prison, New Mexico, January, 1865_

His heart pounding in his chest, nauseated with worry, Mike Peterson gripped his makeshift crutches and awkwardly, slowly, got himself upright from where he had been keeping watch near the hidden trap door to the root cellar. It seemed best, now that he had sounded the alarm, to move away, so as not to draw any more attention to the camouflaged location. He moved off with studious slowness, just as grey and dusty and tired as every other man in the camp. He kept his eyes down as if his every thought was for his broken limb, but he was in a torment of fear for his friend trapped down below, and the family who had done so much to care for him since his injury. _Please keep them safe, please keep them safe_ , he prayed over and over. _Please keep them safe until our troops get here to set us free._

Down below, the clanging had stopped, leaving only the harsh sound of their breathing as Heath, Rivka, and Hadassah looked at each other, eyes wide in the dim room. The twins stirred, awakened by the noise. Heath was first to speak.

"Rivka, Doctor, grab your stuff. You said you can up and git without leaving any evidence behind. Here's your chance. Go. Go! I'll bring the twins. Rivka, bring your mother to the cave. You understand? Move."

The two women jumped into action, shutting down their corner of the root cellar in less than a minute, transforming it into two bundles, one on each of their backs. Rivka led the way to the cave entrance. Bringing up the rear with a boy on each hip, Heath quickly swept his gaze over the cellar, looking for any glaring signs of habitation. Satisfied, he ducked into the tunnel, speaking softly to the boys, reassuring them that they would be safe and they were on their way to another, better, hiding place. He could feel their warm hands gripping his shirt, their breath as they rested their heads on his shoulders. He was awed by the trust they placed in him, a poor, beat-up, fatherless kid just turned 16.

Heath had seen how it would have to be, the moment the alarm sounded. He knew what he would have to do, and he knew neither Rivka nor Hadassah were going to be happy about it. But nothing was more important right now than getting this family away safe.

They had arrived at the wall. Rivka looked at Heath, her dark eyes wide and intense. "Who first?" she whispered urgently. "You have a plan, Heath, yes? What do you want me to do?"

What he wanted was to wrap his arms around her and make her promise him she would be safe, promise him she would grow up and grow old in happiness, promise to go become a physician, just please promise him she would survive this hellhole and go on into the future. But he couldn't say that. If he did, she would know that he was staying behind.

"I'll boost you up there first. You've seen it before, you know what to expect. Then I'll pass the boys up to you."

She nodded, breathless, focused on getting up the ledge and thinking about how to get the boys safely up there. Heath made a step with his hands as he did before. He winced as she used his shoulder as a foothold, but he bit back any sound of pain.

"I've got it, I can climb up pretty easily," she called back. She scrambled forward up into the dark, her weight lifted from his arms. "OK, I'm in the cave. I'll reach back down and pull up the boys."

"You ready, boys? Got a whole new bear den for you cubs. When I boost you up there, look for your sister. Reach for her hand and she'll pull you up into the cave, understand?" The boys nodded, looking at him seriously. One at a time, Heath kissed them on their heads and boosted them up to the ledge to their waiting sister.

He and Hadassah could hear their cries of amazement from up above. "Mama, wait till you see, it's beautiful!"

"I'm coming, _mein kinder_ ," she called, but she was looking intensely at Heath.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "I'm going to get you up there the same way," he said hoarsely, now not meeting her eyes. "Then I'll pass up your bags to you - "

She interrupted him, speaking softly. "Heath, there must be a way. Please. Think. Think of some way you can come with us." Her eyes were filling with tears.

"He has to find me down here. Hadassah - " He looked into her face now, resolute. "He has to. Otherwise he'll go hunting. It's the only chance you have. He has to think he's found what he's looking for."

"Heath, no - "

"I'm going to collapse this tunnel behind me. He must not even suspect there is something down here besides the one tunnel."

The twins laughter, along with Rivka's, echoed down from above. "Heath! Come up! You have to see!"

He looked up toward the ledge, then back to Hadassah. The sadness and worry of his expression gave him an aspect far older than his years. He stepped closer to Hadassah, speaking earnestly.

"It's going to be dangerous enough, you understand? If I was with you, yes, I might be able to scout us through to meet up with the Union troops, but we'd have Bentell right on us and we'd likely never make it that far." He shook his head. "This way, he'll have me. The only chance you have is to get away from here without Bentell even knowing you were here and gone. Rivka knows the terrain by heart. Trust her."

Slowly, Hadassah nodded. "I see why you sent Rivka up there first."

"I figured she might not be willing to go along with my plan."

"Neither am I, truly, _motek_ ," she said sadly. She placed a hand on either side of his face. "You come find us in Albuquerque. My brother-in-law is Mordechai Levi. He is a merchant, well-established there. He will have news of us, if anyone does." She drew him into a hug. "You are a good, good man, Heath. You are a blessing. You survive this, understood? You must. You must stay with us who need you and love you."

"Yes ma'am." He pulled back, as the distant sound of shouts began to reach them. "Time to go. Up," he commanded, and boosted her up the same way. He quickly sent the two bundles up to follow. More shouts, and a metallic banging, and the barking of dogs. Heath began to back away from the ledge, reaching up with his fingertips to find the edges of the timbers holding up the ceiling.

As the first timber came cracking and crumbling down, he could hear Rivka's voice, cracking with grief, shock, anger.

"What? Where is he? Heath! Mama, no, we can't leave him here, no - Heath - "

He gritted his teeth, digging his fingers in to bring down the next timber, his vision blurring with tears. Behind him, there was a sound of hammers and the groaning of crowbars. Beyond the cloud of dust from the falling wood the twins echoed their sister's call. "Heath don't go - " He backed away, reaching for the next timber. Sobbing now, his hands bleeding, he pulled down the beams, one after the other, until finally, mercifully, he could no longer hear the sound of their calling.

He fell back into the root cellar, hurriedly throwing lose dirt and debris over the entrance to the side tunnel to disguise its existence. There was a crash behind him, as the trap door - which they had locked from within to buy time - was breached with pry bars. Heath turned and ran down the main tunnel, praying for the guards to follow. No thought now of fear waiting for him in the dark. All that mattered was drawing Bentell away from Hadassah and her family.


	54. chapter 54

_Western Nevada, July 1874_

Jarrod looked across the clearing from where he stood by his chestnut gelding. As he finished tying off his saddle bags he considered his brother Heath, who was sitting at the foot of a pine tree with his eyes closed and his face tilted up to the morning sun. _One could almost imagine he looks peaceful,_ Jarrod thought. _Be a blessing if he were actually getting a little sleep._

He walked over to check on him.

 _He_ _looks so young_. _He is so young. __All he wants me to bring him in prison is books, says he's got so much to learn about the world we live in._

Heath dozed in the pleasant smell of the pines. The sun, not yet risen to its full summer strength, filtered through the branches. The dappled light moved over his eyelids.

 _He stumbled through the dim passageway, straining to see ahead through the dust that floated in the stagnant air. There was a light ahead, indistinct, and he lurched forward, pushing debris and fallen timbers out of his way. He could taste dirt and blood in his mouth, felt the pain of his exhausted muscles and his burning throat. More than once, he fell to his hands and knees, or was struck by falling rock and wood. Pulling himself free, gasping for air, he kept moving forward. He was closer now, he could see that it_ _was_ _daylight ahead, could see two women with linked arms looking toward him. It was Audra - and Victoria, standing in sunlight. He thought he could hear birds singing, or crickets, and a breeze in the tall grasses. He fought his way toward them, called out to them, "Mother - Audra - ", but could not produce more than a whisper. They could not hear him._

 _They both stood clutching each other, looking toward him in the darkness with growing fear, as if a monster was approaching them. They backed away. "Mother, I'm afraid," Audra cried, covering her face, turning her back to shelter herself on her mother's shoulder._

As Jarrod watched, he saw Heath's eyes moving, saw him frown, his breathing quicken. His hands closed into fists. He moaned in his sleep, begging, "No, no - ". Concerned now, Jarrod moved to kneel beside him, and reached out to wake him from the nightmare.

 _Heath_ _tried in vain to call to them again. "No. Don't go. It's me. Don't be afraid. Please don't go - " He threw himself forward, but found his arms and legs were entrapped by the grasping hands of dead men, so many dead men, pulling him down into the debris of the tunnel, dragging him back, dead men behind him as far as he could see._

 _Heath fought ferociously then, screaming silently, the sound of his fear heard by no one. "No, please, don't go, wait for me - " Desperately he tried to crawl toward the retreating women in the sunshine, sure that if he could reach them, he would be safe and they would no longer be afraid. With all his strength he tried to free himself from the cold, implacable hands that claimed him. He looked down at his body, and saw himself as he was ten years ago, a dying boy no more than skin and bones, bleeding, beaten and starved. His hands were red with blood. Of course his family would flee from him in fear. He was little more than a corpse himself. He belonged here with the dead._

 _And now there was a third person standing with the women in the sun. It was Risley, standing straight and proper, solicitous and protective. He spoke to them with reassuring words, guiding them away from the horror they had glimpsed. As he turned them away with a gentle, chivalrous hand, he looked back at Heath._

 _"Let them go, 597," he commanded sternly. "Let this good family go. Why do you want to drag this horror of yours through their lives any more than you already have? For what selfish reason would you do that to them? Take your punishment. You are a killer, no matter how you justify it. You will always be a plague upon this family, and they have already given you far more than you deserve. Let them go. Leave them in peace."_

 _Weeping_ , _hopeless_ , _he_ _tried once more to speak._ _"No. Please - I want to stay - I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry, let me go with you - "_ _His_ _words reached no one, swallowed by the darkness._

 _"Don't fear, Yankee boy," said a smooth, sardonic, southern voice, and he felt arms wrap around him, hands stroking his hair. "Don't fear. You're not alone. I'm here with you."_

Heath came awake with a start, gasping for air, frantically pushing away Jarrod's hands, fighting to get free. In a blind panic, he struggled to his feet, oblivious to his injuries or the chains upon his wrists and ankles. Before Jarrod could contain him, he made an attempt to run. The first step brought him up short, and he fell into some underbrush, rolling onto his back and moaning in pain. Jarrod rushed to his side. Smith and Ramos ran over at the commotion.

"Heath. Heath! Open your eyes. Wake up."

He opened his eyes, still terrified, but at least aware now of where he was. "Jarrod?" he whispered, hoarse, breathing hard.

"It's OK. You were dreaming."

"Jarrod, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry -"

"Nothing to be sorry for, Heath. Look at me. Stay here with me. Listen to my voice."

Heath took a deep breath in, the exhale more like a sob, as he felt the pain of the gunshot wound in his side. He closed his eyes, grimacing as he tried to get some control over himself. His head fell back on the dusty ground, and he looked up at the sky, taking another deep breath and blowing it out slowly. Ramos and Smith hung back, seeing that Jarrod didn't seem to need their immediate help.

"I feel like an idiot. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"It's understandable that these nightmares and memories would be so much worse now. I'm worried that you're not getting any rest."

Heath spoke to the treetops. "All these years, I was on my own and I found ways to keep all that stuff at a distance, mostly. If it came back on me, if I couldn't stop remembering, I at least was alone so it wouldn't hurt anyone else. After the war, I couldn't stay home for too long with my Mama or Rachel, cause I didn't want them know what I did or where I'd been as a soldier. If I stayed they'd be able to get it out of me eventually. So I'd just visit, then I'd travel for work and write letters home.

"But now, I just can't shake the feeling that I'm dragging all of you into - into this - this mess. This is all my fault. I wanted a family. I wanted so much to stay. I wanted to keep you all safe. I thought - I hoped - I could be with you and all that past would stay put away.

"But now - it's all coming back and pouring out, and I feel like I'm poison to all of you. I don't want to share what happened with the people that I love, put that burden on you. I don't want you to have those pictures in your heads. I don't like how I must seem to you, broken, damaged, like a busted-up ornery horse should just be put down. I don't like all the trouble this is for you, for the rest of the family.

"I did what I did, I shot those men, because I had no other way to stop Risley from killing you. If I have to pay for that, then I have to pay for that. You should just let me go, Jarrod. You - all of you - have already given me so much more than I deserve, or ever dreamed of."

"Heath - "

"Listen, Jarrod, the most important thing is that Risley be tried and convicted for what he's done to all those men in the camp, and what he did to that doctor. He has to be stopped. Don't waste your time on me. I'm no lawyer, but I figure you get Risley, my case will take care of itself."

"Heath, you are my brother. You are not a waste of time. I can't just drop you off in the State Prison and forget about you."

Jarrod gripped his shoulders, willing Heath to look at him, listen to him. "What's happened is making the remembering worse. I know you feel that if you can't keep those memories boxed up tight, that your family would be better off without you around. I know you don't want us to see you as broken. I also know you take responsibility for just about anything you can, and I know there are times when you're not sure you deserve to be alive, much less part of a family that loves you."

Heath looked at him then, a confusion of feelings on his face. Jarrod continued, "I get that, and we'll work through that. But don't you dare use this legal problem of yours as a way to run away from us. You hear me, little brother? You've handed me plenty of courtroom challenges before this, so that's nothing new. I'll send you a bill, how about that? But I'm not just letting you go. Furthermore, I am willing to bet that I am the _least_ stubborn member of this family. We love you. We need you. And so you are stuck with us."

Heath searched his face, his eyes sad, questioning, vulnerable. Jarrod felt as though his brother was seeking the source of his belief and certainty in the love of his family. Jarrod wished he could place that belief securely in his brother's heart, but he knew this needed time, and healing.

He could see Heath pulling in his feelings, armoring his thoughts against the day. "Get Risley," he repeated gruffly. "That's the best way to help me, and you'll be helping a whole lot of other men besides." He made an attempt to get up off the ground where he had fallen, with little success. He grimaced, trying to sit up, then fell back, frustrated. "Guess I'm gonna need some help."

Ramos stepped in with Jarrod to get Heath back on his feet, steadying him as his knees buckled briefly. Heath nodded his thanks as the two helped him sit on the tailgate of the prisoner transport wagon.

Smith stood over Heath at the foot of the wagon, his thumbs hooked in his belt, cigar smoke curling around his head, studying him silently for several uncomfortable minutes.

"Chief, you don't much go for making a man feel comfortable, do you," Heath said, quietly, looking at the ground.

"Hmph." Smith continued his scrutiny. "Yep, that's the truth, I don't. Time to get on the trail."

Heath looked up over his shoulder at the cell-on-wheels that was the transport wagon. His stomach was clenched with anxiety at the idea of getting inside the thing. Further, he wasn't sure how he could climb up there cuffed as he was.

Smith followed his gaze, not missing the signs of apprehension. "Well, I don't know about you, son, but I'd rather travel in a wagon with trail dust coming in, than ride shut up inside a box. That makes me right sick to my stomach. So if it's ok with you, I'm gonna open up the side panels." He then unlocked and slid back the sides of the transport. "Ramos, you're driving. Counselor, I expect you'll be riding in back with us as I talk with your client. Hitch up those saddle horses to the lead lines. Then you and Ramos give our fugitive here a leg up into the wagon, and we'll get moving."

Once all were settled in the transport, Ramos moved the wagon out slowly, three horses on lead lines following. Smith leaned back, eyes still on Heath. "Mr Ramos tells me you rode with Frank Sawyer for a spell."

Heath looked up, surprised. "Did I tell him that?" He laughed to himself. "That was the morphine talking, I guess. Makes me wonder what else I was talking about last night. But yeah, I rode with him. 'Bout eight years ago."

"Frank's a good man. We cross paths about once or twice a year. And now that I think about it, seems I heard him mention you."

"That'd be Frank. He was partial to me, and he wasn't one to tell a good story just once. And we had a few good ones."

"You had some advice for your lawyer here on how he should do his job."

Heath glanced at Jarrod, looked down, uncomfortable again. "Yes, sir."

"What do you mean, he should just let you go?"

"I don't know how all this works legally. I escaped, and I shot those men. There's no arguing there. I didn't steal McGowan's livestock, and I never laid a hand on that doctor Risley says I killed. I shot those men to protect my brothers. The only way to prove any of that is to get Risley."

"What would you tell me to do?"

"Sir?"

"What would you tell me to do about this case? What would you do next?"

"You might start where Jarrod started. He knew where to look for us because there'd been talk of a scam with Sheriff Barnes. McGowan's part of it. Your deputies covering Barnes' office might want to look into just how many times that bull of McGowan's has been reported stolen, and what became of the men he accused." Heath hesitated, looking from Jarrod to Smith. "And for sure I'd try to find Peterson."

"Where?"

"I don't know. He was originally from New Mexico. He might have family there. But more likely he went to his brother, Mike Peterson, who's a blacksmith. I don't know where he lives, but I'm guessing Mike's not too far away, because Peterson talked about him like they saw each other regularly. Mike is a big red-headed guy with one leg. Find Mike, and you'll probably find Tom Peterson. After what he did to help me, seems to me he'd be willing to tell you everything about Risley, especially if he could get some sort of lighter sentence, or even immunity."

"Why _did_ he help you?"

"He didn't at first. He was ready to beat me down, whatever Risley wanted." He winced slightly, remembering. "Turned out I knew his brother Mike in the war. We were friends."

"Friends?"

Heath smiled grimly. "Comrades in hell. We were in Carterson together. I pulled Mike out of a flash flood." He hoped Smith would let him leave the story at that.

"That doesn't explain Tom Peterson turning on Risely like he did. He'd been working for Risley for years."

"I think he found out something about what Risley did to the doctor. If I had to guess, I'd say Risley wanted the doctor to die so he could charge me with murder, so he told Peterson to finish the job."

Smith nodded. That guess would fit with the original message Peterson had sent to his office, that a false murder charge would be filed. Unfortunately, both Peterson and the doctor were missing.

"Then why'd he run off after he turned you loose?"

Heath grew somber. "I have an idea why. Don't know for sure."

"Why?"

"I think - " He sighed. "I think Peterson thought I would kill Risley, that I would kill all of them." He frowned, uncomfortable. "Or, if I got to my brothers before they were ambushed, we would just head out of state together. If Risley came back to the prison camp, he'd see the documents saying I was dead. Either way, I think Peterson thought he was done there, didn't need to help me out any more. Maybe he figured you marshals would catch Risley and the Sheriff and not come after him."

"Hmm. Interesting. Ramos, we're going to have to stop over in Gardnerville to send some wires to track down this Mike Peterson. Also, contact Roberts. Tell him to pick up McGowan and go through Barnes' files to see, and I quote, 'how often that bull of McGowan's has been reported stolen.' Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Smith leaned forward. "So, Barkley, why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what, sir?"

"Why didn't you kill Risley?"

"He was unarmed."

"Unarmed."

"Yes, sir."

"The man was allegedly ordering the execution of your brothers, after torturing you for almost three weeks, and you're telling me you didn't kill him because he was unarmed?"

"That's right."

"Are you sure you didn't just miss?"

Looking at his hands, Heath spoke softly, without a hint of bravado. "Chief, I think it's pretty clear I don't miss."

"So you let him live."

"Yes, sir." Heath was a little confused over Smith's interest in this point. "The rifleman who was coming up the hill toward me, I could possibly have tried to wing him instead of killing him, but I'd taken a bullet by then, and I'd run out of time. The other rifle was about to pull the trigger on Nick. I had to eliminate both threats as quickly as possible. I wish there had been some other way."

"Do you know what Risley has been saying in his statements?"

"No, sir."

"Probably just as well. I'm sure you can imagine. Did it occur to you that you could have made your situation simpler by killing Risley? Perhaps killing all six in the campsite and fleeing home with your brothers? Didn't you desire revenge for what he had done?"

"I want him to face justice. If that means he hangs, that's fine with me. As for running off to California, believe me, there's no place I'd rather be right now, but if I'm free it's gotta be clean. I'm not interested in being a fugitive the rest of my life."

Smith leaned back again, thoughtful. He looked at Jarrod. "Counselor, I don't envy your position, but your client may be right. Convicting Risley is his best hope of getting clear of this. However, Mr. Barkley," he continued, focusing on Heath, " _you_ should not be so quick to dismiss your advocate.

"Regardless of how long this process takes, or what the legal outcome is for you, you do _not_ want to give up your lines of communication to the outside. You understand me? I interviewed Risley. I know what picture he's painting, what he's saying to my men, and what tale he is very likely telling to the newspapers. Once he is transferred to the State Prison, as I'm sure he will be, he will be sharing his views with anyone there who will listen. You may find that you are received by some in Carson City as an incorrigibly violent inmate, an illegitimate mongrel who assassinated five lawmen. I am sure that you do not need me to elaborate on what that kind of reception could be like for you. "

Jarrod saw understanding and fear flash briefly through his brother's expression before he brought his shackled hands up, hiding his face as he armed the sweat from his brow and upper lip. Heath kept his gaze resolutely on the floor of the wagon.

"I will do my best to mitigate that belief among the staff and officers at the State Prison," Smith continued, "but I think it is prudent for you to hold close to any allies available to you. You will need them.

"Now, it is clear you wish to protect your family from pain and worry, but certainly you must know it is unrealistic to expect them simply to stop caring about you. Could _you_ , if they asked it of you?"

Surprised by the sudden change in tone and feeling, Heath looked up, briefly overwhelmed by his conflicting emotions. His gaze moved from Smith to Jarrod, then to the settling dust of the trail behind them. He shook his head sadly. "No, Marshal. No, I couldn't."


	55. chapter 55

_Carterson Prison, January, 1865_

Bentell looked around the empty root cellar with distaste. It was dim, and stuffy, and it smelled of mold and the sweat of his guards who had preceded him into the chamber. Two of them had gone ahead into the tunnel to retrieve whoever or whatever might be hidden there. Bentell was willing to remain in this unpleasant space for long enough to see what the guards found, but then he planned to get topside as soon as possible.

There were sounds of a scuffle within the tunnel, short-lived, and presently the light of the returning guards' lamps could be seen flickering on the earthen walls. They rounded the last bend and entered the root cellar, dragging their dirt-covered captive between them. They tossed him onto the ground at Bentell's feet. "Guess no surprise we found this one, sir." Bentell quickly took a step backward, putting some distance between himself and the filthy prisoner.

Heath stirred, raising a small cloud of dust, then sneezed. He looked up from the ground. "Hey, Bentell!" He looked up at the glowering officer and gave him a sunny smile. "Where's your puppies?"

"Solitary." Bentell jerked his head toward the trap door. "And give him a little something to think about once you get him there."

Up in the yard, Mike watched as the guards hustled Heath once more across the yard toward the storage building. As he passed by, Heath caught his eye and gave him a hand signal and a quick smile. _All clear? Really? How is that possible?_ His feeling of relief was short-lived, however, as he saw the two guards wrapping their knuckles as they disappeared inside, preparing to give Heath "something to think about".

It was getting on toward sunset when Heath came back to himself in the solitary cell. Those two guards had given him a good beating, one his Uncle Matt would've been proud of. He waited a good while before he tried to move, because he wasn't in too much pain where he lay. He was sure there was plenty more waiting for him once he started moving himself around.

He used that time to stare up into the dark and worry about the family hiding in the cave. The news of approaching Union troops had raised the level of vigilance at the prison. Round-the-clock watches were posted on the perimeter, as well as intermittent scouting runs through the surrounding territory. The lookout was for an incoming threat, but it still presented an enormous obstacle for two women and two small children. Rivka and Hadassah were aware of this - Heath had made sure they understood the hazards they faced. They could hold out in the cave for a few days to a week with their access to fresh water, but the twins wouldn't be able to go much longer than that without food.

They were out of his reach now. There was nothing he could do to protect them, and chances were he'd be looking at a firing squad himself by tomorrow. Not for the first time, Heath wondered if he could trust Sam to tell him about the Levis. Maybe he could find a way for them to thread the needle and make it safely to the river valley.

Rivers. Heath liked rivers, liked to hear the water moving, see the water flowing around and over and under whatever came in her path. There was a beautiful river ran through Strawberry, bringing the mountain snow west down to the big valley. He hadn't laid eyes on a river for over six months now, except for that monster that almost killed them on New Year's Day. That wasn't a river. That was more like the Wrath of God. Heath turned his mind instead back to Strawberry, remembering one beautiful Sunday in springtime, him fishing trout out of the river and his Mama and Rachel cooking them up for lunch on the riverbank. He sighed, smiling, loving his Mama and his Aunt.

He heard the outer door bang open, and there was a commotion as guards brought in more prisoners. Heath moved himself closer to the door of his cell, wanting to hear who they had.

The first voice he recognized was Mikey, castigating the guards for their clumsiness. "Hey, careful! To look at you, boys, a person would think you're deliberately trying to bash up this busted leg of mine on purpose!" There was a thud, and a yelp of pain. "Oh, I see. You _are_ doing it on purpose. Well. That's diff - "

"Shut up, Yank." Heath heard the cell door slam shut.

"Peterson! You ok?" That voice would be Lt. Bradley, further down the row of cells. The outer door banged open again as a third man was brought in from the yard. No sounds of struggle. Heath's heart sank as he heard Sam Green. He was, of a wonder, singing. His voice was low and rough, gentle and sad.

 _"Mine eyes have seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord - "_

"Goddamn turncoat," barked one of the guards, and the hymn became muffled as the fourth cell door slammed shut. Heath closed his eyes and added his voice.

 _"Glory, glory, hallelujah - "_

Mike joined in, and Bradley,

 _"Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel - "_

and they sang together, hoping for deliverance, looking for some courage, holding close to this one small bit of comfort.

 _"He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,_

 _He is Wisdom to the mighty, He is Succour to the brave,_

 _So the world shall be His footstool,_

 _and the soul of Time His slave,_

 _Our God is marching on._

 _Glory, glory, hallelujah - "_


	56. chapter 56

_Carterson Prison, January, 1865_

The first day of lockup for the four soldiers was a day of beatings and half-hearted interrogation, conducted by guards who really no longer cared who else among the inmates had conspired to dig an incomplete escape tunnel. Any remaining hostility and aggression they could muster was mostly directed at Sam Green, the turncoat Yankee sympathizer, and even that was thin. The Union Army was closing in, and these Confederate soldiers were preoccupied with their own immediate futures.

On the second day of solitary confinement, the single guard stationed outside the cells was recalled from that post and not replaced. Gone with him was any source of light, or food, or water, or information. By the third day, the men began to consider the possibility that Bentell might had decided just to leave them to die, rather than expend time, personnel, and ammunition on a firing squad. They could hear, from time to time, some commotion or activity beyond the walls of the storage building, but it was too indistinct to provide any sense of events outside.

The four prisoners had each taken to digging and scraping at any chinks they could feel in the walls and doors of the cells, and they had created a few small breaches that allowed them to speak to each other. They would mostly banter back and forth, aiming to keep themselves company and keep the panic at bay. They would share their complaints and ailments, talk about what they would do when they got home, reminisce about food and drink and women. They would frequently check in with Heath on the time of day, and lay bets on how accurate he would be once they got out of there. They would sing, though by the fourth day, their throats were so dry they couldn't manage much, and Bradley - who had been recently suffering from dysentery - was difficult to rouse to speak at all. By the fifth day, they were mostly silent.

Heath lay by the wall closest to the door and a gap in the wall that separated him from Mike. He wanted to be able to hear his friend breathing, and if he did speak, he didn't want to miss it. Heath drifted in and out of jumbled dreams and thoughts. When he could concentrate enough, he would send his thoughts riding on a big beautiful bay stallion up into the Sierras. He would feel the cool air on his face and see the snows up above the timberline. He would ride the winding track that rose through the pine woods to his Mama's house. She would run out to him, beautiful and happy, and she would wrap him in her arms and welcome him home. He could feel her love in his bones, running through his veins. It was what he was made of. Now, dying, his body empty, it seemed that was all that was left of him.

"Mikey, you still there?" Heath whispered into the dark.

"Yeah, I'm here. I think. Unless I'm imagining you." Mike coughed. "My brother's gonna come for us. I know it. Tom's coming with Canby to get us out. He never let me get stuck in more trouble than I could handle. He has to get in his big-brother I-told-you-so. Tom'll be here, you see."

"Y'all make sure you introduce me when he gets here. I'm counting on you," Sam croaked from the other side.

"You bet, Sammy."

Heath smiled, trying to picture a big brother for big Mike, coming to get them out. He drifted off again, back to Strawberry, but this time he was riding west. He kissed his Mama and Rachel and Hannah, and they were waving goodbye. He could hear the springtime runoff roaring in Herring Creek on its way to join up with the Stanislaus River. He could smell the sap rising, and he could see himself sitting a little black mare that pranced and fussed and tossed her pretty head. He would lean forward to pat her neck and tell her what a good girl she was. "Yeah, you're a runner. Just you wait, girl. We get down to that big broad valley and then you 'n me gonna fly. We're gonna fly all the way home." He didn't know where that might be, but he liked how it sounded.

"Hey, Heath - " Mikey's cracking voice pulled him back from his gallop down the valley.

"Yeah, Mikey?"

"What time is it now, buddy?"

"It's tea time. 4:15 PM. I'm ready for some tea and cookies, but I don't think we're dressed right."

Outside, up in the tower, Bentell looked out over the Union troops that were assembled outside the walls of the hacienda. He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced down. 4:15. The Union emissary had given him until 4:30 to open the gates and surrender. Down below, all the remaining prisoners (all but four, Bentell thought), 87 in number, were in a tight lineup against the south wall. The full complement of Bentell's staff were assembled facing the front gate. One by one they had walked to a lean-to by the north wall and deposited their weapons. His three dogs and his wife were waiting in the residence. It only remained to raise the white flag and open the gate, and their war would be over.

Bentell took a few more minutes to survey the flags of the North flapping in the brisk breeze. Not just Northern flags, came a nagging thought. _United States_ flags. Thirty-five stars for all the states of the Union over which they would hold dominion. There was a time when Bentell saw a career of influence and respect laid out before him, a golden path rolled out upon the backs of slaves and protected by a social order designed for the good of men such as himself. In his mind, this Union flag stood for all of the chaos of mixed-in, messy humanity. Under this United States flag, what common, mediocre path will there be for him now? It was time to go. He raised the white flag from the tower, and descended to the courtyard, his shotgun in his hand. He still had one more mess to clean up before he went.

Thomas Peterson, along with most of his fellows in that Union force, was in a fever of impatience to get into that prison and liberate the survivors. But when the white flag went up flapping in the afternoon wind, and the gate began to open, the fear rose up sour in his throat. _I don't want to know that my brother is dead. I don't want to see the horror of what people do to each other. If this is the truth, I don't want to see it. I don't want to know -_

Tom's job, though, assigned direct from the Regimental physician, was to do precisely that. His job was to tally it all up. Figure out who was brought in, who was coming out, and name and number the dead as best he could. He was to catalogue the medical condition of all survivors, and if possible, locate the dead, and speculate on the causes of death. Tom was to be the official witness and recorder of this prisoner-of-war camp that, despite an inmate population that was but a tiny fraction of the numbers at Andersonville, would come to be one of the most notorious death camps of the Civil War. When Tom's work was completed, he would report to his regimental command that 337 Union soldiers were incarcerated at the site. There were no releases or prisoner exchanges, and fewer than 90 were alive at the time the prison was liberated by General Canby. Nearly 3 soldiers for every 4 were dead. Mass graves outside the walls were located and partially exhumed, though this effort was soon abandoned and the sites consecrated as a military graveyard. Causes of death, on paper, were most often infection - influenza, dysentery, gangrene - but these afflictions were just a means to an end. The true killers of these men and boys were starvation and violence, emboldened hungry guests who had settled in and did not wish to leave.

On this day, however, Tom had not yet begun his catalogue of tragedy. He drove his medical cart into the hacienda, and while the surrendering Rebs were being rounded up by the infantry, he and the other support and medical personnel proceeded to the bunched up group of skeletons along the south wall of the courtyard. He felt a growing sense of alarm at the small size of the group. _This couldn't be all of them. Could it? Where are the rest? And where's Mikey?_ As he moved automatically into triage and organizing the area to serve as a field hospital, a wailing of horror had started in the back of his mind. The louder it got, the harder he worked, determined to shut it out until he had a chance to think it through.

A commotion over by a low outbuilding drew his attention. A tall man in uniform - probably the camp commander, by the looks of it - was being ordered to halt. He held a shotgun, and he was attempting to wrestle open the outer door of what looked like a storage building. Just as he yanked it open, two Union officers were upon him, struggling with him over the weapon. Tom imagined they had probably been ordered not to kill the Reb because of his rank, in hopes of capturing him to bring him to justice. The struggle did not last long, and the commander was soon on the ground, bleeding from a blow to his forehead. An infantryman walked him back over to the lineup of kneeling Confederate captives and pushed him down with the rank and file. The two officers started to turn away from the storage building, but then stopped, turning, listening inside. One officer rushed into the building, while the other looked across to the medical team and waved urgently for them to come over.

Tom was on the move in seconds, hopping across the courtyard as fast as his unbending leg would take him. Inside the dark storehouse was a row of cells, and Tom could hear sounds of life from within. In moments they had the four prisoners out in the courtyard. Tom sat beside his brother, unable to stop weeping even as he worked to stabilize Mike's dying leg and slowly get some broth and water into him to begin his recovery.

Heath felt himself lifted as if weightless out of the blackness of the cell, the sunlight overwhelming and painful after days in the dark. For a moment he thought it was Bentell pulling him out of the dark, just to torture him again or to feed him to his dogs, and he fought briefly, but there were soothing, kind voices, and rough but gentle hands, and finally he let them move him where they would. Someone put a cool wet towel folded over his eyes.

"Heath. Hey, Heath!"

His eyes still closed, Heath rasped, "Mikey? You OK?"

"Tom's here, pal. All is good."

"Howdy, Tom," The dark under the cool cloth was nice. He felt so weak. He reckoned he was going to have to let those soldier hands take care of him for a bit.

"Heath."

"Mmhm."

"What time is it?"

"5:20. Time to groom my saddle horse and have a whiskey before dinner."

"Tom? Is he right? I got a lotta money riding on this."

"5:20. Yep," Tom said, looking puzzled at his pocket watch. "How..?"

"Never mind. Green, Bradley, don't you be playing possum now. You heard that? You owe me...!"

"Fair and square, you win, Mikey. Me and Bradley here gonna have to pay you later, though, ain't that right, Lieutenant?"

"Yep," Bradley managed weakly. "And I shoulda known better than to bet against you, Heath."

Heath was glad to hear their voices. He wished he could float out over the hacienda walls and see if Rivka was safe, and the twins, and Hadassah. He tried to tell one of the medics about the family, where to look for them, but he couldn't put his words and thoughts together in a line that made sense. He was so tired and so empty, and his mind didn't seem to want to stay moored to his body for more than a few minutes at a time. Heath thought maybe it would be OK if he just drifted away, just for a little while.


	57. chapter 57

_Carson Valley, NV, July, 1874_

"Half mile up ahead!" called Ramos, as he cantered back toward the transport. He wheeled his horse around to walk alongside. "We're about 12 miles from Gardnerville still, but there's a canyon with some shade and water up over that rise."

From the driver's box, Smith glanced quickly over his shoulder at Jarrod, then turned his attention back to the rutted and unpredictable stretch of road he was navigating. "Ho, there," he called to the team, putting some more tension on the reins to slow them over a washed-out section. "How's our passenger doing back there?"

"Looking a little rough around the edges."

"A little more git-along and not so much up and down would help, Marshal," Heath gritted out, his voice muffled. He was leaning forward with his arms wrapped around his lower abdomen, his chin on his chest, trying to brace himself against the jostling of the wagon. Even Jarrod thought the movement was brutal, their slow speed notwithstanding, and he didn't have a bullet hole in his side. They hit another rut, and Heath couldn't stifle a grunt of pain. Jarrod could see he was clenching his teeth and struggling to regulate his breathing as they rumbled through the washout.

"I think a break would be welcome for both of us, Marshal."

"Mm-hm. Just a little ways ahead, gentlemen. Over a smoother stretch, fortunately."

They rolled to a halt in a shady spot a little way off the trail, and Jarrod helped Heath down from the wagon. He limped a few paces away to a stand of pines, and using a tree trunk for balance, he was able to lower himself to lie on the ground with a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "Boy howdy, Chief, you keep drivin' me around in that wagon and I swear I'll confess to anything you want. You name it, I'll sign it."

"That, son, is not funny."

"Not if you don't think so." Heath looked up at the lawman looming over him. "I feel like I been shot all over again."

Ramos filled his canteen in the creek and mounted up. "I'll ride into town and get those telegrams sent, see if there's any news, pick up a few supplies, Chief. Should be heading back this way before sunset. I'll look for you on the trail in case you're on the move again."

"Very good, Mr. Ramos. Carry on."

"I'll get the horses some water and get us some lunch," Jarrod said as he walked back toward the wagon.

"Jarrod," Heath called out from his spot on the ground. He tipped his head back to look at the harnessed team.

Jarrod turned. "Yes?"

"Check the breeching on that horse on the right. I think she's getting a sore on her inside haunch. If you adjust the hipstrap I think it oughta stop rubbing."

Jarrod nodded and turned away smiling. _That's my brother._ "Will do, Heath."

"Does the life of a rancher suit you, Mr. Barkley?" Smith moved to sit down on a nearby rock. "More than did the life of a soldier?"

Heath looked up at the marshal for a moment, wondering what he was getting at. "I didn't have too many choices when I was a boy. Didn't get much schooling. So I had to make my way doing what I was good at. I was good at being a soldier. Coulda probably made good money with my gun after the war. But I've seen so much needless death and suffering. And my Mama didn't raise me that way." He closed his eyes, said, " _It is neither wealth nor splendor; but tranquility and occupation which give you happiness_."

"Your mother said that?"

Heath chuckled. "No, that was Thomas Jefferson. Most days I feel like the luckiest man in the world."

"Even now?"

"Even now." Grimacing, Heath adjusted his position, bending his knees up to give some slack to the chain that ran up to his wrists. Then, carefully, he rested his forearm across his eyes. "I have family, people I love and who love me. I've been able to work hard at a job I like and feel is worth doing, and I've had a chance to keep learning about the world I live in. I've had a place I can call home."

Smith did not miss the shift to the past tense. "Have had?"

Heath took a deep breath. "I know this may not turn out well. I know what it is to lose. I'm not sayin' I'm giving up, or that I'm happy about... well, about this, being locked up again. I'm feeling a mite desperate about that, to be honest. Not going home." _I feel like my heart's being ripped out of my chest,_ Heath thought. "But that don't make me feel any less grateful."

Heath thought of another book from Jarrod's library that had drawn him in, right before he and Nick had left on this ill-fated trip. _"If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment."_

"Jefferson again?"

"No, Thoreau. Jarrod has an enormous library."

"Hmm. Well, son, I doubt you need to hear this from me, but don't give up on getting home just yet." He looked up at Jarrod, returning with some supplies from the wagon. "Not when you've got such a dedicated attorney who lets you raid his library and who's also willing to be your camp cook and tend to your bandages."

"Yeah, he's a keeper, all right."

"Now don't get too comfortable, little brother. I am going to check all of those dressings, especially after that brutal wagon ride. And as soon as that's done, you can open these cans and get these pans unpacked so we can have some lunch."

It was mid-afternoon and hot when Ramos rode into Gardnerville, a town rapidly growing around the farming and livestock feed business. He took care of his errands quickly, then stopped into the saloon for a drink and a bite to eat. Ramos knew all the businesses and most of the folks in town, having been a lawman here for several years. He got a copy of the local paper, pulled his hat down low, and chose an out-of-the-way seat so he could eat and drink in peace and not be spotted by every patron who came in. As soon as he opened the paper, however, any thought of peace and relaxation disappeared.

 ** _Assassin of Leviathan Canyon_**

 _Local officials and citizens have received reports that marshals are bringing this dangerous killer through our area en route to the state prison in Carson City._

 _The assassin had been identified as Heath Barkley, the alleged bastard son of the late Thomas Barkley, Stockton, CA, whose wealth and influence is well known in these parts. Reliable sources south of our city have indicated that the killer's crime spree began with the theft of a prize bull..."_

Ramos read on, his appetite gone, as the article painted a picture of a gold-digging, violent opportunist who was caught in an act of larceny. Traumatized by the war and trained as an assassin, he became uncontrollably dangerous in prison. Meanwhile, the article suggested, "there is talk" that the wealthy brothers bribed a prison guard to smuggle the madman out, hoping to hide the bastard away to avoid a scandal. Once loose, the crazed former sniper hunted down the lawmen out looking for him, and killed them from ambush, leaving his brothers alive. The warden, diving quickly for cover, barely survived the attack. Only the restraining presence of the Barkley brothers kept Heath from murdering him as well before the marshals arrived to take him into custody.

"He could be close by! I say we ride out and look for 'em. They gotta be somewheres south of here if they be coming up from Leviathan way. They ain't passed through town yet."

Ramos leaned around the corner to get a look at the speaker. Ray Jones, a local rancher and one inclined to vigilante action. He was speaking to a willing group of men who were enjoying the righteous idea of hunting down a rich bastard upstart who had killed a sheriff and his men. They were bored and restless, the July heat limiting what they could get done in the field, and this was a quarry they couldn't resist.

Quietly, Ramos rose from his seat and slipped out the back door. He replayed his ride through town earlier, wondering how many people saw him ride in and who could have noted his direction of approach. Hard to say, but he could at least get out of town without being followed and hightail it back to Smith to get ready for what was likely coming.


	58. chapter 58

_Carson City, July, 1874, previous day_

Dawn was breaking, sunlight just now touching the rooftop of the red barn. In the kitchen, four people sat at the table, their strained and sad expressions illuminated by a single gas lamp. The rest of the home was dark, the children sleeping deep in their beds. Birds sang with urgent enthusiasm in the treetops. The voices in the kitchen were low, sorrowful. One voice in particular was full of pain.

"Mikey - Lisa - I'm so sorry. How did I come to this? Mike, after everything you went through, after everything I saw at Carterson, how could I have let this happen? How did I let it go on for so long? God forgive me, I've been so weak. I just wanted to forget. I was making a living, my family was ok, and I just didn't want to think about any of it. I didn't want to think about what Risley was doing to all those men, just like I didn't want to think about what happened at Carterson. Lisa, I'm so sorry. I've failed you completely. How can you even look at me?"

"Tom. I'm not walking away. But you have to make this right. You can't change what's happened, but you're not helpless."

"What they're saying in the papers - it's not true. That's all Risley, it's got his stamp all over it - and McGowan too, probably."

Mike frowned at the table top, thoughtful. "We need to be careful. Tom, if you're going to turn yourself in and bring them the truth, you've got to be sure you're going to someone you can trust, someone who isn't going to run with Risley's version of events. Hell, there may be some out there that would just rather you disappear. This could be dangerous."

"I thought Heath would've got away clean with his brothers and never look back. But turns out that cowboy is too much of a straight shooter to just run for it. I've got to help him. I can't just leave him to hang."

Mike had to smile, despite the shock and pain he was feeling at the avalanche of revelations and memories that had come at him during this eventful night. "Yep, that's Heath all right. Too much of a straight shooter to get out of the way of a runaway train, if that's what he thought needed to be done."

There was a sound behind them, and Helena turned quickly to find they were being spied upon by the twins.

"Thomas! Heather Artemis! You two get back up in your beds immediately, and do _not_ wake the little ones!"

Artemis scowled at the use of her first name, which only occurred at church, or when she was in trouble. The two children vanished as quietly as they had appeared.

Lisa looked at Mike, a small smile on her face. "Heather...? I never made that connection."

He laughed. "Yup. If we'd known we had another boy in our future, well, I would have waited. But I think the personality fits just fine, so it must have been meant to be."


	59. chapter 59

_Carson Valley, Nevada, 1874_

Marshal Smith looked up from checking the team's harness at the urgent sound of an approaching horse. Over by the trees, Jarrod was giving Heath a hand up as they prepared to get back on the trail. Both turned to see who was riding up.

"Chief, we got trouble!" Ramos pulled up out of a gallop beside the transport, kicked-up gravel bouncing hollowly off the wooden sides. He and his horse were sweat-soaked and breathing hard. "I've been watching my back trail. I don't think I was followed, so they may still think they'll surprise us, but they can't be more'n twenty minutes behind me."

"Back up, Deputy. Who's on your back trail?"

"Would-be vigilante bunch coming out of Gardnerville. Fired up to get our fugitive. What's been in the papers up there is about what you predicted, but it's about as bad as it can be."

"You know 'em?"

"Few of 'em. Know the lead dog Jones. Loves to take the law in his own hands. I count six, maybe seven guns coming. They're farmers, mostly. Not dangerous on their own, but get 'em riled in a posse like this and..." He didn't finish. They all knew what he meant.

Smith scanned the area. Ridge and wooded canyon on the west side, pretty much flat scrub with a few rock outcroppings on their east. "Damnit, this is a hell of a bad spot to get caught. No cover to speak of out there, and a nice spot to get pinned down from above, up in that canyon."

"Marshal, what's going on?" Jarrod wiped the sweat from his brow and put his hat on.

"We got vigilantes coming. Seems they want your brother."

Heath limped up behind Jarrod. Like Smith, his eyes swept the area, looking for cover. "Marshal, might best want to try for that rock pile there, the closest one. Would at least give us some distance if they put shooters up on the ridge."

"Uh huh." Smith nodded. "That's what I thought too." He climbed up into the driver's box. "Let's get a move on. Counselor, you ride and bring the saddle horses. Ramos, get Mr Barkley up in that wagon with you, and start getting the rifles and ammo ready. Time to go."

By the time they had positioned themselves by the outcropping, they could begin to make out the dust of the approach horses. The sun was sinking, and they were soon in the shadows of the foothills to their west. Jarrod found a sheltered spot within the rocks for the horses. Smith walked around to the back of the transport, where Heath was standing and scanning the horizon. He was radiating worry and nervous energy.

"Marshal, I can help. Let me help. I can't let you or Ramos or Jarrod get hurt because of me."

Smith shook his head. "No mob of farmers is going to take my prisoner, or hurt your brother." He moved around the transport, sliding and locking closed the side panels. Then he returned to the back, with his hand on the door.

Heath knew what was coming. He looked pleading at the older man, and was met by a level grey gaze. "Don't lock me in here, Chief. Please - "

"I know very well you can help. _You_ know very well I can't let you. You are my prisoner, and my responsibility. Sit down."

Jarrod appeared at Smith's shoulder. "They're getting into position, Marshal."

Heath seemed frozen in place, looking desperately back and forth between Smith and Jarrod, as if he could will them to offer some other way out. "Jarrod - "

"Back up, and sit down, Mr Barkley," Smith barked. "I want you on the floor of this wagon. Now. That's an order."

Jarrod spoke. "Do as he says, Heath. Please."

Heath looked at Jarrod, opened his mouth as if to speak, then dropped his eyes. His shoulders sagged, and he took a step backwards. Then he slowly knelt and laid himself down on the floor of the wagon. He didn't look up as Smith closed and locked the back door.

Jarrod felt sick as he stepped around to take his place with a rifle looking out toward the darkening trail. He understood why it was necessary, but it was nearly intolerable to him to see Heath locked up like he was some kind of dangerous animal.

In the darkness of the transport, Heath rolled to his back. Feeling along under the bench, he found the head of a loose nail and started worrying it out of the wood with his fingers.

Outside in the gathering dark, Ray Jones rode forward alone, eager to confront the marshals and demand they turn over the fugitive. He halted about fifty yards away from the transport.

"Identify yourselves!" he called out.

"Federal Marshals," Smith shouted back. "You identify yourselves and state your business."

"We are concerned citizens of this here valley, and we believe you are transporting a highly dangerous murderer through our area, one who killed several of our lawmen. We don't intend to let this criminal pass. We intend to bring him to justice right here and now. We'll string up the murderous bastard, and we'll send a clear message to any other mongrel scum that think they can run wild in our valley. Turn him over, and the rest of you can move along with no trouble from us."

"This man is a prisoner in my custody. That means he is in the custody of the United States Government. My chain of command is direct to the Department of Justice and the US Attorney General. Stand down and go home, unless you want a firefight with Federal law enforcement and a long prison sentence."

Jones hesitated slightly, taken aback by Smith's authoritative tone. But then he remembered that he had with him twice the firepower of the marshals. He could taste the notoriety, the respect, the thrill of bagging this particular criminal. He couldn't resist, even if this Fed seemed tough.

"A firefight is what you'll get, Marshal, and I don't see you surviving that to put me in prison. I got my boys in position all around you now. You got no place to go. Let me show you what I mean. Hey, Jack!" he shouted over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Smith.

"Yo!" came the reply from up somewhere behind Jones in the dark.

"Jack, put a bullet in the driver's box of that wagon. Just a demonstration."

A shot rang out, and a bullet splintered a spot about two feet below the driver's seat.

"Marshal! I give you ten minutes to make up your mind. We got no problem with you. Give us Barkley, and you and your deputies can ride off peaceful. Ten minutes!"

Up in a comfortable spot, just a bit up the hill west of the trail, Jack smiled and settled back to wait the ten minutes. No way that marshal was gonna back down. Jack was going to enjoy picking off those feds one by one. This was the kind of shooting he excelled at, and he could just see himself with his drinking buddies back in town, telling all about it, target by target. Not to say he wasn't looking forward to hanging the rich mongrel sheriff-killer. That's something he wouldn't miss for anything. But the shooting - he wanted those bragging rights to himself. He watched Jones take cover behind a rock and raise his sidearm.

"Time!"

Jack got himself back in position and sighted his rifle on the head marshal, who was hunkered down behind the far front wheel of the wagon. Jack was positioned in the dark, on the shadowed side of the hill, while the valley below was still illuminated by the evening sun. Perfect. He took a deep breath, and took up the slack on his trigger, waiting for Jones' signal. In that moment, a hard, calloused hand clamped across his face, and a hunting knife - _his_ hunting knife - appeared at his neck. One finger pressed painfully up under the bone of his nose, while another threatened to pop his right eye. Involuntarily, his eyes watering, he fell backwards, recoiling from the excruciating pain in his face. The knife caressed his throat. A soft voice spoke in his ear.

"Shhh. Put down the rifle. Good. Now drop your gun belt. Take off your bandana." As Jack was occupied, fumbling with shaking fingers at his knotted bandana, Heath took a step back, picked up the rifle, and slammed him in the head with the stock. Jack went down silently.

Quickly, Heath gagged him with the bandana, tied his hands with his shirt, tied his feet with his belt, and then shoved him to roll a little ways from him downhill. Then he picked up the rifle, found a good vantage point, and set his sights on Ray Jones.

"Time's up, Marshal! We want Barkley. You gonna be sensible and hand him over?"

"You can stand down right now and go home. Or you'll be looking at a long stretch in prison."

"No reason for you to die protecting this murdering bastard, Marshal! We got no war with you. You can go right on through safe and sound. But we're taking Barkley."

Smith shook his head. "Stand down, Jones. Last chance."

Jones raised his pistol, pointing it toward the wagon, ordering his guns to attack with all the drama of an Army officer leading the charge. "Go git 'em, boys!" He aimed at Smith, wanting to get off the first shot of the battle, and stared in shock as the pistol flew from his right hand, along with several fingers and a great deal of blood.

Jones shrieked and fell to the ground, clutching his ruined hand. "Where did that shot come from!?" he screamed out to his men hidden in the dusk behind him. "Who fired that? Where did it come from?!"

"Jones!" A voice called out of the dark.

"Who..?" His eyes were searching the dark hillside frantically.

"Jones. Tell your men, _all_ of them, to come out into the open and lay down their weapons. Now. Or I will shoot you again."

"Go to hell!" Jones yelled, foolishly. A shot rang out, and a bullet shattered his right arm. Jones fell screaming to the ground, and began trying to crawl away. Another shot, and the earth exploded inches in front of his nose, spraying his face with hot gravel.

As the echo of the rifle shot faded, the sound of the wounded man's sobbing breath seemed to fill the valley.

"Jones."

"OK! OK! Stop, please don't shoot me anymore, boys, come out - come out here, damnit, drop your guns - "

Heath held his position, covering the marshals as they got the vigilantes counted, contained, and disarmed. Jack briefly stirred and raised his head. "Stay down," Heath ordered quietly, and Jack did. Once it seemed they had the vigilantes all sorted out and corralled, Heath collected Jack's weapons, took the belt off his legs, and told him to get up and walk down to the others. He kept the rifle in his right hand, aimed at the shooter's back, and slung the gun belt over his shoulder. Heath was glad for the dark to hide his limp and his overall weakness. He felt like one good shot would be enough to take him out of a fight, and this Jack seemed like he could be plenty vicious. So he kept him walking ahead, hands tied, rifle ready, and he'd be damned glad to hand him off to the real lawmen.

As they approached, Ramos stepped forward to escort Jack over to the group of would-be vigilantes. Heath stopped where he was, abruptly exhausted, suddenly not sure he was going to be able to remain upright. He saw Smith and Jarrod walking toward him. Smith had his gun in his hand, pointed at Heath. He stopped a few yards away, still covering Heath with his sidearm. Ignoring Smith, Jarrod continued, walking up to Heath and holding his shoulders to look into his face. "Are you OK? Please tell me no new injuries."

Heath seemed to pull himself back from a long distance away to answer his brother. "Yeah, I'm alright. I'm tuckered out, but I'm alright."

Ramos walked to the back of the transport and looked inside. On the floor were the wrist and ankle shackles, and a bent nail. Ramos picked them up, shaking his head, and carried them back over to Smith.

Smith grunted. "A nail. Hm. Well." He glanced over at the bullet hole Jack had put in the wagon, then leveled his gaze on Heath. His sidearm did not waver. "Lucky for Mr. Jones, you're a way better shot than his guy."

Heath didn't respond. He seemed frozen, tense as a coiled spring.

This worried Smith. He waited a beat, then: "Mr. Barkley." No eye contact. "Put those weapons on the ground, please."

No response.

"Heath."

Nothing. Ramos, quickly picking up on the tension, moved unobtrusively to a flanking position.

Smith took a slow breath, his grey eyes narrowing as he assessed his fugitive. Willing him to listen, if it were possible. _Don't_ _you do this, boy. You know better. Don't you go that way._

He had to shut this down. "Counselor, could you please step away from your client?"

Jarrod took a step back, worried, looking anxiously back and forth between his brother and the two marshals. Smith spoke again, louder. " _Heath_. Stand down. _Now_."

Heath stood rooted with the rifle in his hand, the desire to flee suddenly so strong he was shaking with it. He could hear Smith ordering him to stand down, and for one terrifying, helpless moment, he thought, _I can't. I can't do it. He's gonna have to kill me._ He looked at Jarrod, wanting to apologize for messing up so badly and getting himself killed. Jarrod looked back at him, nodded. "It's OK, Heath. You can do it." His brother's solid presence helped him to steady himself, helped him push away from crazy thoughts. He closed his eyes for a moment and reminded himself to breathe. Then he carefully laid the guns and the knife down on the ground in front of him and took a few steps backward.

Relieved, Smith holstered his gun and walked over to him. "Good thing for us you seem to make a habit out of pulling people's bacon out of the fire." He held up the shackles. "I'm not sure what to do with these now. Or what to do with those yahoos over there. Guess I'll have to give them to the local sheriff, cause I sure don't want to travel with 'em. And you - you could've gotten out of these cuffs all along?"

"No, only if - if I had something to pick the lock with," he said, hesitant. _He's gonna have to find some better way to lock me up,_ Heath thought miserably. _Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Seems to be the way this thing is going._ "After Carterson, I made a point of learning how."

Morose, Heath stared at the ground, hoping desperately Smith wouldn't put those shackles back on him again and shut him up inside the wagon. He knew it was stupid to be fretting over that, when he had the real threat of prison in his future to worry about. But he couldn't help wanting just a little bit of freedom before they got to Carson City.

"Well, Barkley, you're going to have to be in these cuffs when we arrive in Carson City. But until then, I think we can do without, presuming you continue to behave. Ramos, we need to discuss our route to avoid further mobs of vengeful farmers."


	60. chapter 60

_There are three quotes in this chapter. The first two are from Moby Dick, by Herman Melville, and the third is from Walden, by Henry David Thoreau._

 _New_ _Mexico, January, 1865_

There was a voice of a girl that flowed in and out of his dreams during the days following the liberation of the camp. His mind was adrift for much of that time, sometimes in places that seemed safe and comforting, often times not. The girl's voice spoke beautiful words that he couldn't fully understand, but her voice and the beautiful words were like a shining silver thread woven through that timeless passage, a silver rope he could follow back to a peaceful place when he became lost among his nightmares.

" _There_ _is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar."_

From time to time, he'd come back to his body, to the present moment, briefly, but he didn't seem to have the strength to stay for long. Sometimes he would remember he was a soldier, he was a prisoner of war, and how is it there was a girl? The voices of soldier men were always there.

" _He fights, this one. We keep trying to get him cleaned up, but he fights... leave him be and he's quiet as a lamb. He'll eat and drink a little, no fighting, though it's like he's not there. Sure, we'll try again. He's no giant, we should be able to just hold him and get it done, right?"_

These fragments of speech would come to his ears, keeping their meaning only briefly before drifting away in the breeze. There would be hands upon him, sometimes gentle, sometimes painful, as they tended to a wound or tried to hold him down. He couldn't focus enough to understand who and why they held him. He felt someone touch his hair, to wash and cut it. There was pleasure, brief, intense, but the touch also brought him overwhelming fear, and he had nothing with which to fend it off. The touch just became _him_ , Linceul, and Heath was too weak to pull away or keep struggling. So he just turned his head and wept, helpless.

 _"What is it with this one? I'm just trying to wash him up, give 'im a cut and a shave, he acts like I'm killin' him."_

 _"Just leave him be. I'll sit with him. He'll be fine. I'll read to him."_ The girl's voice wrapped around him, guided him back, kept him warm.

" _Where_ _lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling's father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it."_

A woman's voice came to him. Heath turned to the sound, thinking, _I know her._

" _Gentlemen, leave him be. Let us take care of him. I think he'll feel better with us. He knows our voices. I think we can keep him calm."_

 _"Whatever you say, doc, you're the boss."_

He felt her close by, speaking only to him.

" _Heath. You are safe. Stay here with me. You know me. I am going to wash you up and cut your hair. May I?"_ He felt her warm hand on the side of his face as she gently pushed his hair from his eyes.

He fought not to drift away again. He wanted to answer, but no words came to him. Eyes closed, he turned his head against the palm of her hand, and he nodded, a small smile on his lips.

" _You will be so handsome, motek, once we get some food in you. You rest, and Rivka will read to you while I get you cleaned up."_

Rivka? He thought perhaps he was off in another fever dream. Now her voice brought him words of hope and future and a rising sun. He drifted to sleep on the pleasure of the washing and grooming, and the joy that was the absence of fear.

" _We_ _must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake...by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us even in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavour...Morning is when I'm awake, and there is dawn in me."_


	61. chapter 61

_**Carson Valley, NV, July 10, 1874**_

In the end, it was decided that they would camp the night back by the creek, and Marshal Smith would pack up the seven gunmen in the wagon and take them himself to the sheriff in Gardnerville. He knew Sheriff Driscoll to be a simple but committed lawman, and trusted him. Smith could see that he and his party were riding into a small war, transporting this fugitive to Carson City, and he needed to secure his rear flank. He needed to make certain Driscoll understood the situation, would keep the current lynch mob locked up and off their tail, and furthermore would keep a lid on any other would-be hangmen who got it in their heads to chase after them.

The Gardenerville jail was fairly new and sufficiently spacious for the seven farmers. Driscoll was surprised into speechlessness when Smith rolled in with his passengers, one of whom had a grievous arm injury that had been tourniqueted in the field. He deferred to Smith as the marshal locked up the seven men and sent one of Driscoll's deputies to fetch a doctor. Then they stepped into Driscoll's office to talk.

"Jeez, Marshal, what you got going on here? This have anything to do with that sniper they been writing about in the papers?"

"Everything." Smith leaned in, elbows on the desk, his speech deliberately geared down into simple, good-ol'-boy sheriff language. "Everything to do with. But the first thing you need to know is that what's been printed in the newspaper is hogwash. This Barkley fella is not the murdering criminal they're writing him up to be. In fact, he saved Ramos and me from being killed by your vigilante farmers this evening. Coulda run for it most anytime, and he hasn't. He's been about one of the most straight-shootin', law-abiding cowboys I've ever met. I ain't got it all proved yet, so I'm obliged to take him in to Carson City. But when it all washes out, I'd bet my life he's innocent." As he spoke, Smith realized, he was also sharing that truth with himself for the first time. He paused for emphasis, holding Driscoll's gaze, making sure he was understood. "This stuff in the paper, it's gonna keep causing trouble. You get that, right? And I can tell you, it's coming from the warden, this Risley. He's got a lot at stake. I can say pretty confidently at this point that he's been running an illegal slave labor operation out of his prison camp, and he's pointing the finger at my prisoner in hopes it'll keep his own neck outta the rope."

Driscoll sat back in his chair, shaking his head in amazement. "Well, I'll be. This is one crazy situation you got here, Marshal. And if I'm hearing you right, you might keep having trouble on up the road, and maybe at the state prison too." He leaned forward again, his expression serious. "For sure you can count on me to keep your back trail quiet. I'll keep these boys here for a spell, for one thing. The harder part's gonna be bird-dogging and shutting down any other would-be vigilantes, but I promise you, we'll be out sniffing."

* * *

Back at the campsite, Jarrod tended to the saddle horses, while Ramos got some dinner cooking. Heath wanted to help with either or both tasks, but it was clear that his exertion that day, climbing a hill to take out Jack the sniper, had taken its toll. Even free of the shackles, he couldn't move much. The bullet wound and several lacerations on his back had started up bleeding again, and the pain had gotten much worse. He finally gave up trying to help and just lay down, perspiring, his face drawn and pale.

Jarrod checked over his bandages, and replaced the one around his abdomen. The amount of pain Heath was feeling worried him, but Heath insisted it was just from a long day of wagons, bad roads, and knocking out snipers. "I'll be OK with a little rest."

Later, Ramos took himself off a little distance to keep watch, but give the brothers some room to talk.

Jarrod filled a canteen with fresh water from the creek and brought it over to Heath. He sat down, looking into the fire thoughtfully. "Heath, can you tell me more about Carterson? The commander before Bentell? You don't need to say more than you're ready to, but I think it would help if you could tell me something."

Heath took a long drink of water and nodded, gazing into the fire as well. "I'll try. I thought, all these years, if I never spoke about him, I could make him disappear, make it like he never existed. I've learned that doesn't work. And I know it helps to have someone to talk to about it." He glanced at Jarrod. "I hope you know how much I appreciate what you said to me this morning. Really."

"I do."

Heath looked back into the fire, frowning slightly as he looked for the right words. He took a breath. _First step_. "His name was Jean Linceul. He was an officer from Louisiana. I don't know his back story, but he seemed educated, like he came from a rich family." The memory of Linceul walking around his desk to look him over that first time played through Heath's mind as if it had just happened minutes ago. He could feel his heart rate rising, his muscles growing tense. _Slow down, boy. You don't have to relive it._

Jarrod could see the rise in tension, though Heath had said little more than the man's name so far. Unconsciously echoing Heath's thoughts, he said, "Just take it slow, Heath. No rush. I'm here."

 _And Linceul is not_ , Heath reminded himself. "It was maybe four months after we were captured," he continued. "I was caught stealing food to smuggle down to the Levis. Wasn't the first time, but up until then I hadn't caught the commander's attention. I was fifteen."

Jarrod closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't know how best to describe him," Heath went on, carefully, feeling his way forward. "I've known violent men, abusive men, killers. My uncle, for example. Bentell. Risley. Chavez, in Mexico. They are weak, angry, frightened men. They seek power by hurting others." Heath nodded to himself. "Linceul was - _different_. He didn't seek power, or money, or military success. He wanted the suffering. Any kind of suffering. He was creative. He was clever and patient. I don't think he really cared what I was hiding from him - though he would've gotten it from me eventually. He just wanted to torture me."

Jarrod flinched slightly at this last. He was struggling to comprehend what his brother was describing, and noted that his own mouth was dry, his heart racing. "What happened? Can you tell me?"

Heath tried to be matter-of-fact. "He strung me up in the courtyard and beat me for about a day and a half." Jarrod's eyes widened. "Then he shackled me in his tent for four, maybe five weeks. No food, just water. Kept me there like a pet he could torture whenever he pleased. And like I said, he was creative." Heath figured that was about all he could say about that part for today.

"Heath, I won't lie, this is hard to hear. Hard to hear that such a person even exists, much less that he had - had you -" _Dear God, he was just a boy!_ Jarrod frowned, trying not to be overwhelmed by his own feelings. Kept his focus on Heath. "How did you survive? How did you get away?"

"I had help. I wasn't his only victim. There was a guard whose best friend killed himself in camp, probably because Linceul was raping him on a regular basis," Heath said bluntly. Jarrod scowled into the fire, sadness warring with rage and horror for center stage in his mind.

"The guard, Sam, slipped me a shiv. When Linceul came at me that night, I killed him. Sam snuck me into the brig and told the officers I had been there all night."

"Five weeks, Heath. My God."

"I had a lot of help recovering from that. I was about dead. I was beat up and starved. I couldn't sleep, I could barely think, really. The Levis took good care of me, and Sam, and the men in my unit. A few weeks later, Bentell arrived." He smiled faintly, but his eyes were grim and distant. "And, as a very wise girl said to me once, Bentell wasn't a demon. He was a weak, angry man with too much power. But Linceul - I don't know what he was."

"You killed him."

"Yes. Good thing, cause he was on his way to do worse to me than he had already done." His eyes narrowed, pushing aside that memory as best he could. He took a breath. "But I can say from experience, killing the man didn't make the demon go away. I'm still dealing with that, as you can see."

Having no words for a moment, Jarrod moved over to sit by Heath and put an arm around his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Heath. I can't even imagine. I'm so glad you came through all of that and more - so glad you came to be my brother."

Heath sniffed, looked down, then smiled at Jarrod. "Thanks."

"You've mentioned the Levis before. I'd like to meet them one of these days."

"It's been a few years since I've seen them myself. I'd like the whole family to meet them someday. Once I get back home."

"Yes. We're gonna get you back home where you belong." He felt Heath relax against him, just a bit. Jarrod smiled and held him a little closer, and they sat and watched the fire together.


	62. chapter 62

_New Mexico, January, 1865_

 _"There is dawn in me..."_

The cool air moved gently over his face and bare chest, the predawn breeze waking him from a deep, blessedly dreamless sleep. He lay still, taking a moment to look, smell, listen around him. He was here and awake, for the first time in...days? It was 5:20 in the morning, of that he was fairly certain, but he'd have to think a bit to come up with the date. He marvelled at the feeling of once more inhabiting himself, his thoughts and feelings coherent and grounded in this body he lived in.

So he was still in Carterson, he saw, as he looked around him. It appeared to have been transformed into a small field hospital and Union Army outpost. As he turned his attention to his own condition, he felt his right hand resting upon something soft and warm. He himself was lying on a cot in an open-sided tent, covered to his waist by a blanket. His right hand, he found, was resting upon the shoulders of a sleeping girl, his fingers entwined in her dark hair. Rivka was sitting on a low chair by his cot, a book in her lap. She had fallen asleep with her head resting beside his right hip.

The sight of her suddenly overwhelmed him. Relief, joy, love, gratitude, the awful fear of what might have been - all these filled him and flowed in tears upon his face.

"I know, I feel the same way," Hadassah said softly, appearing to kneel by the cot across from her daughter. She smiled at him, her eyes filled with tears as well. "Good morning, Heath." She reached out to place her hand on his cheek briefly. "It is a blessing to see you back with us."

"I'm so glad you're safe," he said, his voice rough, hoarse. "I was so worried - "

"All is well, motek. Rivka can tell you the whole story soon."

"And the boys, where are they? Are they OK?"

"Yes, they're fine. They're sleeping in our tent, over there." Her smile widened. "We've been able to get word to my husband, thank God. This had been terrible for him, all this time not knowing what had become of us. He's coming here to get us, riding south with his brother."

He smiled back at her. After almost eight months of fear and captivity, death and loss, hearing news of hope and survival and returning to family was overwhelming. "I'm not dreaming you right now, am I? I'm so happy for you, for you husband, for your whole family - "

"Heath, you're awake!" Rivka lifted her head up, and as always, her luminous smile warmed him and made him feel a little like he was floating. Then she pounced on him, and they were hugging each other, and Hadassah was hugging them both, and he started crying all over again.

Hadassah sat back and looked him over. He wiped his eyes a little sheepishly.

"Clearly you need food. You can't get back that tough, cowboys-don't-cry demeanor without more food. And I don't mean just fattening you up a bit. You've got some actual growing to do yet, boychick, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." He gazed at Rivka. He could see that she also had benefited from some decent food, sunshine, water, and rest. She was still quite thin, but there was a glow now to her skin, and her expressive face was no longer so drawn and pale.

"You were reading to me and talking to me. All these days," he said, wondering.

"I have had to order her away from you, in fact, at least once or twice a day. This isn't the first time she's fallen asleep sitting here." She looked fondly at her daughter. "I could only entice her away by letting her help me with patients. She has established a relationship with General Canby, if you can believe it, and he has allowed her to borrow books from his collection. Hence the literature you have been hearing in your sleep."

Heath smiled at her. "I heard your voice all the time. I didn't understand all of what you were reading, but it sounded so beautiful. And it helped, truly, more than I can say. I was -" he looked down, as he realized he was tearing up again. "I was so lost sometimes. Terrified, sometimes. Hearing you there, it seemed to help me find my way back." He took a breath, trying to lighten his feelings a bit. "What have the boys been doing all this time? Have they been wrestling me in my sleep?"

Rivka began giggling. "Yesterday - once Mama finally got you cleaned up - Avram and David came and took their afternoon nap right in this cot with you." She started to laugh outright. "It was so cute, the three of you, all sleeping like puppies. They wouldn't stop asking to play with you, so that finally was our compromise. But, Mama said, only after you got a decent bath."

Heath blushed at this, though he couldn't help but laugh at the thought of the twins.

"Don't worry, Heath, I wasn't here for the bathing part, though I did help with the shave and haircut. I think I'm a fair barber, actually. But Mama took care of the rest."

Still blushing, he looked up at Hadassah. He opened his mouth to speak, but she put her hands on her hips and scowled at him, silencing whatever protest he might have planned. He closed his mouth and looked at his hands in his lap, glanced up at her again, then said simply, "Thank you, Dr. Levi."

"You are most welcome."

Heath looked out at the camp. It was starting to stir into motion as the sun rose. Heath sat up in the cot with some help, and tested putting his feet on the ground. "Where's Mike? What happened with his leg?"

Hadassah said, "He's already gone north with his brother, along with some of the more seriously wounded and sick. I think it's likely he'll lose that leg. It was already compromised, and it was re-injured when you were locked up. But he's otherwise recovering, and his brother is looking out for him."

"And Sam? And Lt. Bradley?"

"Sam was initially confined with the other Confederate soldiers. That was neither safe nor pleasant for him, as I'm sure you know. Mike and Lt. Bradley advocated for him, and he was brought out. He's doing well. He's been assisting me with patients." Still, her expression was sad. "Bradley did not survive." Heath nodded as she shared this news. He had known the young lieutenant was at risk even before the lockup. They all could hear how weak he was becoming as the days in solitary passed.

"No water for all those days...", he said sadly.

"Yes. I think his kidneys failed, and we couldn't bring him back. He wasn't in pain."

"He was 27," Heath said quietly. "He had a wife, Allison, and a five-year-old daughter. Catherine. Katie. Named after his mother. He planned to join up with his brother and sister to open up a hotel and restaurant when he got home. Something near the river in St Louis. He was a good man. He looked out for all of us. So many times he had my back. I was 13 when I signed on. He couldn't get me to admit my real age, but he knew, and he watched out for me."

He sat for a minute, remembering, grieving for the family that Bradley had described so lovingly. Then he turned back to Rivka and her mother. "What happened once you were in the cave?" he asked, then yelped as Rivka punched him in the shoulder. "You mean _after_ you tore my heart out, leaving us and running back into that prison?" Rivka flared at him.

He was speechless. This was a side of her he hadn't seen before. She was beautiful - and furious. " _You_ just decided what was best and didn't tell me! You didn't even say goodbye! I thought you were dead - " Some tears began to creep into her voice. "I thought I'd never see you again, and I couldn't cry because we were telling the boys that you were _fine_ , that everything was fine, and they'd be scared if I cried. And I was so _mad_ at you!" She tried to punch his arm again, but he managed somehow to pull her into a hug instead.

"Rivka, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he said softly. She cried on his shoulder, and he looked sadly up at Hadassah. "You shouldn't have had to go through any of this."

Rivka pulled back to look in his face. "That is not the point, Heath. We were - are - in this _together_. It was terrible being in that cave, not knowing if you survived or if we would survive. You gave yourself back to the prison to protect us. That was your decision. Didn't that make it easier to face, because it was your decision?" Heath hesitated, thoughtful, then nodded. She continued, "I might have agreed with you, but I didn't get to choose. All those days in that cave, I thought and thought about what else we could have done. I didn't come up with anything. But if I had to go into that cave and leave you behind, I want my eyes open. I want to choose, to know why we did that. And if I have to leave you behind, I want to say goodbye. If you _ever_ do that to me again - "

He held her hands, gently. "I understand. I do. I'm so sorry, Rivka."

She sat back, calm again. "OK, I won't hit you anymore, for now at least."

"So? What did you do in the cave? How long did you stay there? And how did you meet up with Canby?"

"We never left the cave! The patrols up above us seemed almost constant. They were spaced out enough that I could sneak out and check my traps, but not enough for us to get out of the area."

"Wait. What traps?"

"Remember those snares that you and Jimmy taught me how to make way back in October? I used one to trap a big rat one of those times Bentell was stalking you with his dogs." Heath smiled, remembering. "I made a bunch of them, and I was catching a lot of rabbits down in the arroyo. The cave had plenty of fresh water, and we'd make a tiny cook fire way in the back of the cave near where there were some fissures that would vent the smoke. We were eating and drinking better than we had in months. So we were able to hide out in there and just wait until Canby had secured the area."

She smiled happily. "Imagine how pleased they were to find a physician hiding in a cave right next to almost a hundred patients in need. The regimental physician had been called back north, because they had no doctor at the new hospital at Fort Union, and _officers_ were dying, making the situation urgent. So Canby asked Mama to take over what has become the Carterson Field Hospital." She was clearly proud of her mother's abilities.

Hadassah added "I don't think there's any thought to this being a permanent facility. But there is certainly a great need for physicians all over this territory."

"Didn't you say Papa and Uncle Max were traveling with a squadron bringing more medical supplies? Oh, Heath, did Mama tell you? Papa is on his way here! I can't wait to see him!"

"She did, and I can't imagine how relieved and happy he is. He probably wishes he could fly here from Albuquerque." He thought for a moment. "How did you get word to him? I'd like to send a letter to my Mama, let her know I'm alive."

"I already asked Solomon to get a message to her. Leah Thomson, in Strawberry, correct? Rivka told me it's a mining town in the Stanislaus, near Pinecrest."

Heath was again speechless for a moment. It's not that he was a complete stranger to kindness and compassion. He was himself kind and compassionate, and he tended to draw that quality out in the people he befriended. But this - it was more than an act of kindness. It felt like an act of family. "Thank you," he said, earnestly. "Thank you so much."

"I feel for your mother, Heath. She must be missing you terribly." She smiled at him. "Now before you get up and walk, as I can see you're planning to do, you must first have some food and plenty to drink. Then Rivka can help you practice walking again."


	63. chapter 63

_Carson Valley, Nevada, 1874_

Smith woke from a deep sleep in his bedroll to the sound of horses busy at their morning feed. He had rolled in late the night before, relieved Ramos at his watch, then gratefully traded off with the deputy about four hours later to go get his rest. He could smell coffee brewing over a stoked campfire.

"Looks like you've kept busy this morning," he commented to Ramos, who was tending the coffee pot.

"Not really," he replied. He gestured with his chin. "He's been up for almost two hours. Took care of the horses, I think he hammered in a few loose shoe nails, got the fire going, and now he's fixing something on that wagon. Only thing I did was heat up the coffee. And he brung the water for that."

"That's my brother," Jarrod said, rubbing his face as he walked up. He smiled, but he kept a worried eye on Heath, watching for any sign he was pushing himself too hard.

Lying on the ground under the front axle of the wagon, Heath was repairing a link in the brake system that was damaged by Jack's bullet of the day before. He'd used the time since he woke to gradually test what could do physically, keeping a steady pace, nothing abrupt or too heavy. He didn't want to reopen the injuries he had, but he needed to move and get a sense of his strength and stamina. His conclusion so far was that both were lousy, but a sight better than a few days ago.

As he got into a working rhythm, he let his thoughts wander down some more normal, peaceful paths. He was aware that his mind and body had spent the past several weeks on full alert in a state of life-or-death struggle. He knew from experience that he would need time, practice, and conscious effort to stand down to his usual state of mind.

His thoughts went to the Levis. It was true he hadn't seen them since before his mother died, but they had kept in touch by letter over time. During those years after the war, Heath was always in motion, riding from one job to the next. He would write to Hadassah and Rivka in Albuquerque, and they would send letters to his mother in Strawberry for him to read as he came through to visit.

The last time he visited with the Levis, he had just finished a stint scouting Apaches for a caravan of settlers and merchants coming from Fort Worth over to Las Cruces. He was heading up north again, maybe all the way to the Klamath. He was 21, and Rivka had just turned 17. He knew she was preparing to travel east to begin studying at the Medical College of Pennsylvania under Dr Ann Preston. Rivka had written to him admiringly about Dr Preston, an activist and abolitionist and advocate for women in medicine. Rivka's great uncle Jacob, a physician, was also in Philadelphia, so she would have family there to look out for her. Heath wanted to see her before she left for what would be years of study and training.

He had held close to his memories of that visit. He always felt welcomed and at ease in their home. Rabbi Levi beat him soundly at chess while pumping him for practical information and advice about life in the southwest - everything from weather to home repairs to livestock to avoiding poisonous creatures. The twins, then 8, mainly wanted him to teach them to ride and rope. Hadassah fed him and asked him about himself and his mother and Rachael and Hannah, with whom she had developed a connection by letter over the years. Rivka had grown into a simple beauty, tall and slim like her father, but with her mother's strong, intelligent features and dark eyes. She had completed most of her college-level studies already by 17, and had been assisting in her mother's medical practice for several years. She was happy, passionate, and excited to embark on this next step in her journey.

When Heath rode up to their small house in Albuquerque, Rivka was the first to fly out the door to greet him, throwing her arms around him in a hug that knocked him back against his horse. He laughed and pulled her in tight. "I missed you," he said. "Let me look at you. You're almost as tall as me! You look wonderful. Happy birthday."

He handed her a small packet. It was a small bag on a leather thong intended to be worn as a necklace, decorated with exquisite beadwork. "It's Apache," he explained. "It's a medicine bag."

"Thank you," she said, enchanted by the gift. She smiled at him. Even remembering now, four years later, that smile made him feel like he was the richest man on the planet.

In the years since, he had stayed in contact with all of them. Rivka was flourishing with her studies back east. Solomon had been asked to lead a growing congregation in San Diego, so the family moved to California and Hadassah opened a new medical practice there. Heath had been working mostly in the north of the state, and was up in the Klamath when his mother fell ill.

His letters to Hadassah and Rivka - and theirs to him - had been a lifeline to him as he struggled to find a way through the death of his mother and his entry into this new, sometimes overwhelming family. They both understood the depth of his grief for his mother - and soon after, for Rachael as well. Knowing him in a way the Barkleys didn't, they could listen to his doubts and fears and offer him support and love and advice from a different perspective, one he desperately needed at times. They were protective of him, no doubt, but their happiness for him at finding his place with the Barkleys was deep and genuine. He wanted very much for the families to know each other.

Staring at the underside of the transport wagon, Heath realized he'd been counting the years and months until Rivka might come back to California. That was the letter he was waiting for. He smiled and shook his head at his foolishness, and picked up his pliers to finish fixing the wagon brake.

Then he stopped again, letting another reality sink in as he pictured seeing Rivka after four years apart. This wagon he was fixing was his cage taking him to the Nevada State Prison. Whether he'd end up there for good, or at the end of a rope, was an open question. He truly was a fool. He was a liability. He had no business imagining himself in anybody's future right now, especially not hers.

The sound and vibration of a single approaching horse was loud to Heath, lying as he was on the ground. He secured the link he had repaired, and set his mind to the daunting task of getting out from under the wagon and back up on his feet.

"Mornin', Marshal!" It was one of Driscoll's deputies.

Once Jarrod saw the rider was an ally, he stepped away to help his brother, who was obviously struggling to get back up after his morning activities.

"I can clearly see that you did not at _all_ overdo it this morning. You are as nimble as a young buck in the springtime."

"Very funny," Heath gritted out. "I'm just a little stiff." In fact he was in excruciating pain from lying on his lacerated back, but couldn't find a way to reposition himself and get out from under the wagon that wasn't equally painful.

"Would you like me to roll the wagon back and just pick you up?" Jarrod sipped his coffee and admitted to himself that he was enjoying this a little bit.

Unseen under the wagon, Heath growled at him. The sound turned into a muffled groan. Jarrod squatted down to look at Heath. "OK, seriously, brother. What can I do to help?"

Heath scowled. "Well, just help me roll over so I can crawl out. This hole in my side hurts like hellfire when I try to sit up."

Once Heath was settled back at the campfire with some coffee, Smith said, "Some good news, finally. Mitch here says one of the other deputies knows the blacksmith we're looking for, Mike Peterson. He's right there in Carson City. So some of Driscoll's men are heading up there to look for Tom Peterson. Mitch'll travel with us for a stretch, help us keep an eye out for any other locals wanting to hang Mr Barkley here."

Heath winced at that comment, though it was softened by Smith's quick pat on his shoulder. He shared a smile with Jarrod, relieved at a possible break in their favor.

"OK, now that our fugitive has repaired our wagon, let's get a move on. I _really_ want to meet this guy Tom."


	64. chapter 64

_Note: The warden at the Nevada State Prison was Pressly C. Hyman, and many of the facts I've incorporated come from the "Biennial Report of the Warden of the Nevada State Prison for 1873 and 1874". This report can be found in the digital collections of the Nevada State Library. I'm not a historian, but I do try to look up a few things so I'm not way off. This report, however, sucked me in. It's a fascinating document. Even though it's full of dry details, I thought Mr. Hyman's personality came shouting off the pages of that report (my impression only - I don't really know anything about him). And so - unplanned by me - he became one of the moving parts in the plot._

 _In_ _addition, his report details the individuals incarcerated there during those two years - who came, who went, their crime, sentence, place of birth, occupation, etc. Those lists alone beg for a novel to be written about them. Remains to be seen if Heath gets tangled up with any of these characters, for good or ill._

 _As_ _an aside - meanwhile, back at the ranch - the rest of the family is on their way to Nevada. Victoria in particular has a few things she wants to say about all this._

 _Carson_ _City, July 1874_

The southern approaches to Carson City were flat and dusty, a mostly unattractive landscape done in shades of brown at this time of year. To the west rose the Sierras, snow-capped still after a winter of heavy snow. Sitting in the back of the wagon, Heath gazed at the familiar mountain contours, picturing Lake Tahoe sparkling deep and cold, out of sight behind the eastern peaks. The wagon rolled up to a shallow ford in the Carson River. Heath took a deep breath. The smell of the water and the reeds and sage that hugged the river banks was a welcome change from the miles of dry summer road dust.

Smith pulled the transport to a halt and surveyed the far shore. He respected water, even when it appeared calm and shallow. He never made such crossings without a healthy degree of care and vigilance. He waited while Jarrod and Ramos mounted their saddle horses and took up the lead line of the third. Whenever possible, he much preferred letting horses pick their own path through the water rather than go tethered to a vehicle. He found, as with people, this helped the horses remain calm, and hence make better choices than do animals being dragged along by the nose. Smith was a man who sought to encourage wisdom and intelligence, no matter the source. He was old enough to know that an open mind was one of his greatest strengths.

The crossing, fortunately, went smoothly, and the wagon rumbled up the grade on the north bank to reach a well-travelled dirt road. Here Smith halted the team in the shade of a large cottonwood tree. He walked around to the back, slapping a cloud of dust off his Stetson against his thigh. He settled the hat back down over his grey eyes, scanned the horizon again, then looked in at his prisoner. Heath was sitting quietly, his elbows on his knees, watching his face. Smith was struck by his stillness. _Still water runs deep_ , went the old adage. Then another thought came to him unbidden. _This is how he gets ready for whatever is coming next. Strength and understanding can come from many sources and unexpected directions - **if** you let it come to you. _ It occurred to him that this was a thing that perhaps he and young Mr. Barkley had in common. That, and a willingness to see people and circumstances as they are.

"What was that line of Thoreau you quoted to me yesterday?"

Jarrod turned to listen, curious.

 _"If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment."_

Briefly, though not for the first time, Jarrod wondered about where Heath's intelligence might have taken him had he had an education beyond what his Aunt Rachael could offer him. What could have been, had he not been either working or fighting since the age that most kids are in first grade?

"Yes, yes," Smith said. "That was the one."

"Are you saying I should be ready for disappointment, Marshal?" His blue eyes were steady, watching.

"I think you're as ready as you're going to be. You don't need me to see what might be ahead. And unlike most men I bring this way, you have your eyes open. Still, I can't say I'm not worried."

"Marshal, what are you getting at?" Jarrod interjected. He could see that the two were sharing an understanding that was largely unspoken, one that Jarrod could guess at, but he was a man of words and specific communication. Moreover, the tone of the exchange was making him nervous.

Smith sighed and leaned on the side of the wagon. He glanced at Heath, but then directed his answer to Jarrod. "I don't like what he's going to be walking into up at the prison. I'd much prefer to keep him with me, head west down this road, and round up Mr. Peterson, who I hope will be able to put an end to this. But I have a written order from Judge Bentley in my pocket that instructs me to deliver Heath directly to the custody of Warden P. C. Hyman. As you know, Jarrod, Judge Bentley is a solid, honest judge who will likely be your best ally in resolving this situation. But as you also know, he is scrupulous in following procedure, and would not look kindly upon us if we were to, say, _improvise_ with his orders. Do you agree?"

Jarrod nodded. "Yes, I do. What do you suggest, Marshal? I take it you're expecting sentiment at the prison such as we saw in Gardnerville?"

"Yep." Smith frowned thoughtfully. "I know Hyman. He's a political administrator. He prides himself on the excellence of his facility - the cleanliness, the productivity of the shoe factory and the stone quarry, the most up-to-date prison organizational techniques. He took the position when the prison was in chaos. The warden before him refused to step down and actually had a stand-off with the Governor until troops came in to throw him out, remember that? Hyman completely overhauled the place, enclosed the whole thing in stone walls, started up the shoe factory and turned that and the quarry into a big business. He micromanages the spending and the budget, from potatoes to tools to new tiling in the drainage system. He cares about all the details, as long as they look good on his biennial report to the legislature. He has good medical facilities, and values the safety and health of his prisoners, because it makes for a good report every two years. But he leaves the day-to-day running of the prison to his executive officer, because Hyman is often out on the road, shaking hands, visiting other prisons, going to conferences. I don't know the XO personally. But Risley does."

"What's their connection?"

"I don't know for sure, other than they worked together here some years back. The XO - his name is Donovan, Charles Donovan - recommended Risley for the Wellington position. It occurs to me that they might be partners in that operation. It occurs to me that Donovan might have gotten the idea from Hyman's business approach to running a prison, but couldn't pull it off here because Hyman is such a bean-counter. And it occurs to me that Mr. Peterson might have some insight into that relationship as well."

The four men shared a look. Heath broke the silence. "If you're right about that, Marshal, you are going to have to protect Peterson. He'd be in more danger than me. Could be they're thinking if Peterson is taken out and their operation is safe, then they can take their time getting rid of me. They can just steamroll over me legally." Jarrod frowned. He hadn't thought along those lines. Heath continued, "We'd best get a move on, Marshal. It looks like you and Jarrod and Deputy Ramos have your work cut out for you. The sooner you can drop me off, the sooner you all can get working on Risley. And I'm going to be counting on you to work fast." He straightened, grimacing in pain with the movement. "You gotta lock me up again before we get there, Marshal. Might as well do it now."


	65. chapter 65

_Carson City, July, 1874_

There was one thing Heath was glad for, being locked up inside the prisoner transport: he couldn't see the grim stone walls of the prison as they approached. He heard the muffled exchange between Smith and the guards posted at the entry gate. They rumbled forward slowly under the archway, and Heath had only a glimpse of stone and mortar and heavy wrought iron bars through the small side window. Then they were inside, and he heard the sound of the gates closing behind them.

 _Just watch and wait_ , he told himself.

Things moved quickly once they were inside. The transport was opened by two prison guards, who dispassionately removed the new inmate from the transport and escorted him off to be searched, washed, shaved, and clothed in standard issue prison uniform. He had no opportunity to speak with any of his companions before he was hustled away.

The guards initially moved him along quickly, following what clearly was a well-oiled intake routine. They started to slow as they noticed Heath was struggling to keep his feet under him. He was stiff from sitting in the wagon, and it had been less than a week since he had been shot. He had healed up some, but most any abrupt movement – not to mention routine things like breathing, turning, bending – could still hurt enough to stop him in his tracks. He stumbled slightly, trying to keep pace, but the movement he used on reflex to catch his balance tore like a branding iron into his side. Pain drained the strength from his legs and he went down on his knees, gasping, pressing his arm over the wound in his side.

"I'm sorry, boys," he rasped, his eyes squeezed shut. "Tryin' to keep up. Kinda twisted the wrong way there."

"The judge's orders were for assignment to the medical block for evaluation and treatment," said one of the guards, looking at the papers he held in his hand.

"Guess I can see why," the other guard said. "Still have to run 'im through the chute, though. We'll just move a little slower. Let's go, boy."

They each took an elbow and pulled him to his feet. They moved on down the hall. Even in this unpleasant circumstance, Heath marveled at the construction. Everything seemed to be made of sandstone. They entered a small, stuffy, windowless, stonewalled room. There were buckets and a water spigot on one wall, and a drain in the floor. The guards removed the shackles.

"Okay. Everything off."

Heath wasn't surprised at this. Not that he liked the idea of stripping down in front of these guards and likely getting washed up with buckets of cold water, but he knew it was a sight better than Carterson. There, the Rebs didn't care how filthy or diseased the prisoners were, and there was no clean water to be had of any temperature. Resigned, he unbuttoned his shirt, and soon had handed off all his clothes. He sure hoped he'd get those boots back at some point. They were broke in just right.

The guards paused in their routine, taken aback at just how battered their new prisoner was. One of the guards – he seemed older, more experienced – said, "I wonder if I should have Doc Davidson come in here to see him before we wash him down. I don't know what to do with the stuff that's bandaged."

"You could take 'em off, I think, long as you have some clean ones to replace afterwards," Heath said helpfully. "A little soap and water won't hurt none."

Surprised, both the guards just looked at him. Usually at this point their new inmates were scared and weepy and often unable to form a complete sentence. "I'll just go get Doc." The older guard trotted off down the hall.

The younger guard was uncomfortably silent for a bit. Heath just stood, looking at a spot on the wall, trying not to sway on his feet. He decided that it being such a blazing hot day in July, he was more comfortable standing there naked than was the young guard sweating in his uniform jacket.

Finally the guard's curiosity prevailed. "Where'd you come from? You're beat up all to Hell."

"To Hell and back, yep," Heath said. He looked at the young guard, probably about his age. He thought maybe he'd try and plant a seed, see what grew. "You know Captain Risley?"

"I heard of him. I only been here working a year."

"He runs a labor camp down in Wellington. Thing is, he's turned it from a legal prison into a very profitable slave labor camp. Making a nice living at it. He and the local sheriff been roping in men travelling through with false arrests and then selling the labor. From what I can see no one is ever paroled or released from there. The men die, and then they catch new ones."

The guard was looking at him, eyes wide.

"Risley's pretty good with a bullwhip, as you can see. Keeps the workers in line."

Heath could feel the guard's eyes on him, felt his gaze sliding over his skin. The feeling made him intensely anxious, but he shoved that aside.

"I escaped from there."

"You're that sniper they been writing about! Killed a sheriff and some other men."

"I killed a crooked sheriff and four guns who were about to execute my family. I deliberately didn't kill Risley. Then I waited there for Marshal Smith to arrive, and here I am, because I believe an honest court of law will set this right."

"No way. The papers said they had to gun you down to catch you and bring you in."

"Don't have to take my word. Ask any of the marshals. They were there. You trust them, right?"

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Risley's on his way here too, you know. Feds are bringing charges against him for what he's running down there in Wellington. He's got a lot to lose. I expect he'll keep saying things about me hoping to save his own neck." Heath glanced up at the guard. "What's your name?"

"Tim. Tim Fitch."

"Tim, I know you gotta do your job. You'll get no trouble from me. But when it comes to what the papers say – you ask Smith, or Ramos. They'll tell you straight." He took a breath, tried to ease the pain in his side by shifting his weight over. Rubbed his sore, scraped up wrists. The stone box they were in was starting to close in on him. _Just stay steady,_ _Heath_ , he told himself. _Stay steady. You go all spooked and skittish and they're bound to believe you're the crazy murdering soldier they've been hearing about._ He looked toward the door as he heard approaching footsteps.

Tim looked at Heath thoughtfully, then straightened and raised his weapon as the older guard and the doctor entered. The doctor was middle-aged, portly, with a practiced, attentive eye that strangely stopped short of acknowledging that a human being stood before him. Heath watched the doctor as he circled him, never speaking directly to his subject or even making eye contact. It was an odd feeling. There was no malice in the doctor's demeanor. He was focused on his task, poking, prodding, removing the bandages, taking a few notes, but it was as if he were thoroughly assessing a used stagecoach for safety and necessary repairs.

"Yes, yes, alright," he finally said, turning to the two guards. "I've removed the dressings. You may wash him up as you typically do. I'll be back with clean bandages, and then you can get him dressed." With that, he left.

"Okay, mister, kneel down. Over there by the drain."

Heath obeyed, slowly, wincing slightly as the bare skin of his burned knee came in contact with the stone floor. He reminded himself again that this wasn't Carterson. This wasn't even Wellington. These guards were just doing their job, and today their job happened to be him. Somehow that thought helped. They didn't shave his head, but they did shave his face, and cut his hair short. The cold clean mountain runoff water and the soap actually felt wonderful after days on the trail. At his request, Tim gave him a few tin cups full of water to drink down, as they waited for the doctor to return with new bandages.

He was still kneeling in the middle of the stone floor, naked and dripping wet, when Smith appeared in the doorway, with Jarrod behind him. Heath was slightly hunched over, his head hanging with fatigue, hands braced on his knees for support. He looked up sidelong at the two men, too tired and sore to spare any energy for modesty. "The water's fine, boys," he said faintly, with a slight smile. "Toss your clothes and jump on in."

Smith snorted and rolled his eyes. Jarrod smiled, gamely keeping with Heath's tone, and said, "I'd love to, Heath, but unfortunately, this bath is all yours." His eye, though, was intently surveying his brother's condition. He was still so thin, and now, face shaved and with his hair so short, he truly looked like a teenager. Jarrod felt fear for him and a protective rage twisting in his chest.

Smith glanced at Jarrod, aware of his rising emotion. Deliberately casual, he leaned against the side of the door. "Mr. Barkley, your attorney and I are going to meet briefly with the warden and his XO, then we'll be heading to town. Jarrod has some paperwork to take care of with the judge." He avoided mentioning any plan for further investigation or collection of witnesses. He didn't want to set off any additional alarms, should there be active enemies here.

Heath nodded, raising an arm to wipe some water from his eyes. "Thanks, Marshal," he said. "Travel safe." He cleared his throat and tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Jarrod - when will you be coming back, do you think?" Their eyes met, each trying to steady the other.

"Tomorrow morning at the latest. I'm going to check for messages at the telegram and send a message home."

The doctor came bustling back into the room with an armload of supplies. Heath gave Jarrod a reassuring half-smile. "You go on, Jarrod. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Jarrod looked worried at Heath for a moment, then returned the smile and left with Smith.

The guards helped Heath lie down on a board covered with a sheet for cleanliness, and laid another sheet over his waist. As before, the doctor was deft, focused, and efficient, like a skilled mechanic. Heath had seen plenty of veterinarians over the years that had more interaction with their patients than this physician. He would talk, but only to himself.

"I see Dr. Agilar's letter here. Yes, I see what he did here surgically. Nice work. I'm going to clean out this bit here, doesn't need much…"

No morphine or reassuring conversation this time, but plenty of pain. When the doctor was engaged in debriding a particularly stubborn part of the bullet wound, Heath finally wrapped his arms over his face to try, unsuccessfully, to keep from screaming. The doctor didn't even glance up. Heath was shaking with the effort to lay still and sweating like a race horse. Tim, looking slightly alarmed, came over and offered Heath a rolled up bandage to bite on until the doctor was done.

Finally he was done, and the guards handed Heath his prison uniform to put on: underclothes, socks, some rough denim pants and a heavy grey cotton button-down shirt. Then, praise heaven, they gave him his boots back. He slid off the table with some help, still feeling a bit weak and dizzy after his session with the doctor. The two guards escorted him across the main yard toward a small cell block that housed inmates needing daily medical attention.

Out in the yard, Heath took the opportunity to breathe some fresh air and sweep his eyes over the Sierras looming brown and green to the west. Sometimes a trick of the light could make them seem so close, and today they looked like were right there at the prison walls. He was in a world of stone, it seemed. The walls, the buildings, the walkways, the stairs – all sandstone. There were piles of stones in various corners of the yard where new construction was occurring. In the yard, there were about twenty men sitting and smoking, or playing cards. Their eyes followed his slow, limping walk across to the medical block.

"Where's all the inmates?" Heath asked. "That group can't be everybody."

"Nope," answered the older guard. We got about 130 men here altogether. Most working the quarry. About seventeen working in the shoe factory. That'd be some of those men there on break."

They turned aside into a low dark archway where Tim unlocked another iron gate. The medical block had barred cells just like the other cell blocks, but there was an adjacent work area for the doctor, with a sink, extra lighting, and places to keep medical supplies. There were no other inmates.

"Here's your spot, Barkley." They directed him into one of the cells, and handed him a bedroll.

"No roommates?" Heath asked.

"Not right now. There's a bell outside your cell. You see the pull lever there to make it ring?" Heath nodded. "That's so you can call if you have a medical emergency. You ring that to cause trouble or cry wolf, though, and you'll see a world of trouble. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

The two guards stepped out, leaving Heath alone. He laid the bedroll out on the cot, then sat looking at the floor. He sighed and ran a hand over his short hair. _I hope Jarrod doesn't take his time bringing me some news tomorrow. I'm gonna go loco sitting here waiting for him._ He looked up sharply as the outer door opened. Two men entered. One was a tall, stooped, bookish man of about 60, with glasses and a long, well-groomed mustache. Behind the glasses, Heath noticed, the eyes were active and intense. The second man was even taller, but broad-shouldered and muscular. He had black hair and eyes, and an angular, scowling face. He spoke deferentially to the older man, but the deference did not reach his eyes. Heath wondered why the older man did not seem to notice this, when it seemed glaringly obvious to him the moment the two stepped into the room. Heath stood and approached the bars of his cell.

"Mr. Barkley. I am Warden Hyman. Welcome to the Nevada State Prison. This is my XO, Mr. Donovan."

Heath nodded to them both. "Afternoon."

"I hope your intake process was smooth and efficient? I have reviewed your papers and the orders from Judge Bentley. You will be here in the medical block until you are cleared for work. Everyone works here. It is a necessary part of your rehabilitation."

"I understand, Warden."

"I have heard the reports about you, Mr. Barkley. Marshal Smith, however, insists that you are a law-abiding young man, and claims that you saved his and the deputy's life when you could have fled custody."

Heath nodded. "I believe I'm law-abiding, Warden. And I do believe the truth will come out in court." He looked up at Donovan, who was staring at him from his position just behind and above Hyman's right shoulder. He had a look of a red-tail hawk spying a rabbit in an open field, a rabbit that had wandered way too far from his bolt-hole. Heath swallowed, added, "I'm not going to be any trouble, to you or Mr. Donovan here."

"I expect not." Hyman turned to leave. "Donovan, check back on Mr. Barkley later, make sure he's settled in."

Donovan remained for a moment facing Heath. The black eyes bored into him. "Absolutely, Warden. I'll check in on him personally."


	66. chapter 66

_Nevada State Prison, July, 1874_

Heath had gotten a simple but decent meal of rice and beans, and plenty of clean water. They had brought him out to use the enclosed commode and to wash up. He couldn't help but notice the lack of stench of death and sewage, or the absence of maggots in the food. The water was clear, without a cloudy toxic scum of disease. He thought a man could stay pretty healthy, physically at least, for a good long while in this place. That is, assuming that man wasn't someone's target.

He paced his cell, bars on three sides, stone wall in the back. He found that if he positioned himself in the outer corner, he could see into the portico and through the small barred window to the outside. It faced north - to the left he could see a small piece of sky over the mountains, now red with sunset. Straight ahead, beyond the yard and the north wall, he could see a haze of what he guessed was rock dust hanging over the quarry. It caught the fiery colors of the sky, giving the scene a hellish look. Heath decided it would not be good for his state of mind to follow that train of thought, and resumed his pacing.

The outer door opened, and Donovan entered with one guard. Heath turned to face him, standing in the middle of the cell, eyes alert, wary.

The guard positioned himself at the door while Donovan walked around the outside of the cell, looking Heath over. He carried no weapons. He returned to the front and stopped. Then, to Heath's surprise, he laughed. His voice was a deep bass, adding to the feeling Heath had that he was facing a giant.

"Mm, mm, mm. So here's the mongrel Risley's been telling me about." He rubbed his hands together. "We're expecting Risley to arrive tomorrow." Another deep laugh. "Depending on how that shoulder wound is, maybe you two will be roommates. That'll be a sight to see. Though it would've been so much easier if you had just killed him. I remain amazed at how badly he's messed everything up."

Heath's heart sank. It seemed Smith's suspicions were correct. _Watch and wait_ , he reminded himself.

" _Damn_." Donovan chuckled again. " _You_ look like hell. I'm trying to imagine what kinda sorry shape you were in when you blew the Captain out of the water. He must feel like a fool. Oh, yes, indeed. No wonder he wants you flayed and dragged - and then lynched, for good measure."

Heath narrowed his eyes, but he remained silent.

"Me, I think Risley isn't thinking straight on this. I think it's Mr. Peterson we should be hunting first and foremost. I can take my time with you. You aren't leaving anytime soon."

Donovan tipped his head to the side and studied this Barkley bastard. Face and arms still covered with bruises, but no swelling to speak of now. He was staying on his feet, but Donovan was pretty sure it wouldn't take much of a shove to change that. Looked pretty underfed still. The doctor had given the XO a complete report, but he still wanted to see for himself. He motioned with his head for the guard to unlock the cell.

Heath retreated a step as Donovan entered the cell. The XO was taller than him by a good six inches, and probably outweighed him by eighty pounds. Donovan advanced, smiling, and commented, "The Captain _didn't_ mention what a good-looking boy you are, even in your sorry condition."

Heath cursed, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Oh, for the love 'a.." _Frying_ _pan, to fire, to... **this** now?_

He didn't have a chance to complete his thought. Donovan gave him a good push, and he grunted in pain as he fell back hard against the stone wall. He barely had his feet back under him when Donovan was upon him, pinning him against the wall with his right hand at his throat. Heath blinked and swallowed hard, trying to stop the room from spinning around him.

"Unbutton your shirt." The order was punctuated by painful pressure on his larynx. Heath complied, his eyes on the XO's face. Watching, waiting.

Donovan pushed the shirt to the side and took his time exploring with his other hand, tracing over ribs, scars, healing lacerations. It settled over the bandage above his hip. He could see the kid tensing, jaw tight, bracing himself. Keeping his eyes open, looking right at him, until, of course, he couldn't anymore. Donovan sank his fingers into the bandaged area, enjoying the sight of Heath arching his head back against the wall, crying out hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut.

Donovan released his pressure at Heath's waist, but continued to hold him up against the wall. He smiled, watching the boy try to catch his breath. "You _are_ appealing." He slid his fingers thoughtfully along the top of the prison denim pants, speculating, imagining. The blue eyes were on his face again, but now they were full of cold rage. Donovan laughed again. "Yes, I know, you want to kill me. No surprise there. But, tell me - growing up a dirt poor bastard - this can't be new to you? You must have traded on your pretty self somewhere along the line, no? For food, shelter, protection?"

"No." His voice was a harsh, angry whisper. "Been plenty tried to take what they wanted."

"And...?"

"They tried."

"Ah, I see." Donovan breathed deeply in through his nose. "Mm. Well, Barkley, if and when I decide to _take,_ there won't be a damn thing you can do to stop me." He saw Heath tense, clearly wanting to lash out, starting to struggle. Donovan tightened his grip on his throat, watching until he saw the blue eyes go vacant and the fight go out of his muscles. Abruptly then, he let go of his neck, and Heath fell to one knee, coughing, shaking his head, but immediately struggling back up to stand. Donovan waited until he was most of the way standing, then shoved him back down to the floor.

"You might do better to learn how to stay down, boy. Might make your life a whole lot easier."

He walked out of the cell, then turned to look back at Heath, who was now using the edge of the cot to get himself up off the ground. Donovan dropped one hand to adjust the pressure he was feeling in his groin. He would have dearly loved to just go back in there right now and trap the mongrel under him on the cot, do all the taking he wanted. That would have to wait, unfortunately.

"You want Risley to face justice. That's why you didn't just kill him. And you want to go home - though why that family wants you, I have no idea.

"I'm guessing you have some idea where I could find Tom Peterson. Maybe we can come to some sort of understanding, a _quid pro quo_ , as your lawyer brother might say. I want Peterson, as a matter of survival. I want _you_ , as a matter of appetite. Seems you've got a few things to bargain with. Think about it."


	67. chapter 67

_Nevada State Prison, July, 1874_

"At least -" he gasped, trying to sit up, "At least the guy lets you know where he stands right up front," Heath muttered to himself as he pulled himself up onto the low cot. "No beatin' around the bush. Lays the bargaining chips right out there on the table."

Alone once more in the cell block, he decided to give up on his original plan of standing up, and instead rolled to his back on the cot with a drawn out groan. Glancing down, he could see fresh blood seeping into the bandages above his hip. The wound was yelling fiercely at him, throbbing smartly in time with his pounding heart. He let his head fall back and tried to relax as he stared at the ceiling.

 _That is one big, mean dude,_ Heath thought. _Can't imagine me taking him out in a fist fight on my best day._ He sighed. He'd known since he was a little kid there was a type of man out there who would come hungry after him. He learned early on to spot the truly dangerous ones, and either evade them or shut them down quick. The rest he dealt with as he dealt with all the different types of people he encountered in his wandering life. He tried to see them for who they were. As far as love and sex was concerned, that wasn't his way, but he reckoned that was just one of many differences people had.

He'd sadly learned over his 25 years that being locked in a prison tended to complicate things, limit a man's options. He couldn't evade Donovan, not yet anyway. And it sure didn't look like he could shut him down either. He couldn't count on a quick exit, though he desperately hoped for one. Seemed he was gonna have to deal with Donovan one way or another. Heath lay quiet, listening to the nighttime outside, thinking it through.


	68. chapter 68

_Nevada State Prison, July, 1874_

Heath woke before dawn, still alone in the cell block. He lay on the cot for a few moments, appreciating the fact that he had had a deep and dreamless sleep. He rolled up slowly, testing out his limbs and checking the bandage on his abdomen. There seemed to be no additional bleeding, but an echo of the pain from last night still pulsed there.

Leaving the bandage in place, he buttoned up his shirt and sent a worried glance toward the outer door. He heard voices approaching. Two guards, Tim and another young, broad-shouldered guard Heath hadn't seen before, entered from the yard. Tim held the door open, and Donovan stepped in. He smiled at Heath as he approached the cell, adjusting his uniform sleeves and brushing some dust from his jacket, looking for all the world like a man proud of his purchase at a horse auction. Heath stood, immediately back on full alert. He quickly assessed the two guards as posing no immediate threat; in fact, they appeared hesitant, glancing at Donovan and at each other with questioning looks. Clearly it was not the intake routine for the XO himself to come fetch a new inmate from the medical block. Heath kept his attention on Donovan, his mind racing as he tried to anticipate which of a myriad of possible threats could be coming his way.

"Rise and shine, Barkley! I'm sure you're getting stir-crazy in here. Let's get you outside working today."

"But sir, I thought he was to be cleared by the doctor first?" Tim was clearly terrified of the XO, but he had seen what kind of injuries this prisoner had. Didn't need to be a doctor to know a man shouldn't be busting rock with a bullet hole in his side.

The XO rounded on the junior guard. "Davidson and I had a _long_ conversation about this inmate last night. He's cleared to work. Moreover, when _this_ one gets stir-crazy, apparently he starts killing people. So we'd best get him moving rocks so he's too tired for murder and mayhem. Anything else to comment on, _Fitch_?"

"Ah - no - no, sir."

"Carry on. He'll be working solitary. I don't want him around our other inmates, in case he gets violent. Understand? Tell the shift boss he's to work the northwest corner. I'll be checking on him within the hour."

"Yessir."

Crossing the yard toward the quarry, Heath was glad he had eaten all of his dinner last night. Didn't seem like breakfast was part of the plan this morning.


	69. chapter 69

_Carson City, July, 1874_

Midmorning, Jarrod was pacing in the Warden's outer office, waiting for an explanation as to why he couldn't meet with his brother. The warden was out of town, and Jarrod could only extract vague information about medical and surgical treatment from guards who claimed to be the doctor's assistants. He wished he had the marshal with him to force the issue but he had ridden to the south side of town to meet Mike Peterson. The word they had received was that Driscoll's men had found the blacksmith, but he claimed not to have seen his brother. Then, when pressed, he merely refused to tell them where his brother was. Smith intended to break the standoff.

His mother had wired that she would be arriving by train this morning, with Nick and Audra. The fact that he couldn't get to Heath was maddening, and he was running out of time to get back to meet the train. Finally, after yet another confrontation with another "medical" stonewall, Jarrod turned to head back into town. Just outside the walls, he heard an urgent whisper.

" _Mr. Barkley_!"

Jarrod turned to see the anxious face of the young guard, one of the ones who had brought Heath into the prison.

"Mr. Barkley. My name's Tim. I spoke with your brother a few times. I know you've been waiting to see him. He's got some trouble, Mr. Barkley. I don't know if there's anything you can do to help him, but I thought you should know."

A few minutes later, Jarrod was heading back to Carson City at a flat out gallop. He had to get this information to Smith, and then round up the rest of his family. Then they needed to see Judge Bentley.


	70. chapter 70

_South Carson City, July, 1874_

"Another one of you? Listen, I've got work to do. Can't you see I've got plenty of mouths to feed?"

Smith decided to get right to the point. "Mike, listen. I don't know if these deputies explained to you what we're about here. But if you care for your brother, and if you care for Heath, the way I think you do, you'll help us out."

Mike frowned. "How do I know you're not one of those that wants to get rid of my brother?"

Smith answered, "I was bringing Heath in because that's my job. He killed some men who were going to kill his brothers. But he didn't run. He came with me so it could be worked out lawful. And on the way he managed to save my life and my deputy's too. He _let_ me put him in the prison because that what's the judge ordered. He could've taken off. The people who would like to get rid of your brother have Heath in that prison, and I need Tom's testimony to get him out of there to a safe place. I can't convince the judge otherwise. I can keep Tom safe too, but I need him to come talk to me and to the judge. Can you tell him that? If I don't get Heath out of there now, the way I see it, he won't make it out at all."

"I'll tell Tom. You've got someplace safe you can meet?"


	71. chapter 71

_Carson City Federal Offices, July, 1874_

Smith got up and paced, in part to keep himself from leaning in over the Judge's big desk and expressing himself with his imposing physical presence. He knew he had to rely on words of persuasion in this office. If Bentley felt Smith was trying to intimidate him in any way, Smith's efforts would backfire, and Heath could be lost to them in a wilderness of legal obstacles and lethal enemies.

"Judge, I delivered that young man to the State Prison against my own instincts, because I respect you, your guidance, and your office. I have had serious concerns for Mr. Barkley's safety, which have since been confirmed, and by more than one source. I know Warden Hyman, and I believe he is professional and committed to his duty. He is often absent, however, and he delegates the day-to-day supervision of the inmates to Mr. Donovan. I have evidence Donovan is in collusion with Warden Risley. Donovan has threatened Mr. Barkley as well as our witness Mr. Peterson. We must move Barkley to a safe location. We are _obligated_ to."

Bentley leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and looking up at the tall marshal. "It is not your position to state what is, or is not, mandated here, Marshal. This man, Heath Barkley, is, by your own description, a highly skilled sniper. He has essentially confessed to capital murder, committed from ambush, no less. According to the reports my office has gathered, he has at least two instances of escape from a prison facility prior to Wellington. He has a long history of being a rootless drifter, and I am deeply skeptical that he has the support of a respectable family like the Barkleys such as you describe. And in the face of all this, you are asking he be removed from the most secure location available in which to hold him."

"It is not secure for _him_ , Judge. This man is innocent until proven guilty. Protecting him from a credible and imminent threat to his life is our responsibility, and just as high a priority. We have good evidence now to discredit his original arrest, and by extension the incarceration at Wellington, which in turn obviates the escape charge. Our witness also corroborates Risley's intent to kill Nick and Jarrod Barkley, which places significant doubt on the charges of murder.

"Warden Risley is due to arrive today at the State Prison, as you know. He has allies _and_ co-conspirators there. Many of the guards are sympathetic, or influenced by what has been written in the papers. Heath Barkley is not safe there. Judge, I transported this man safely from Leviathan. I rode with him for over five days, when he had ample opportunity to escape. Not only was he compliant and cooperative, he probably saved our lives in Gardnerville.

"I will take personal responsibility for containing him until you see fit to make a final disposition. I will report on his status to your office on an hourly basis, if those are your conditions. Your Honor, if anything happens to that young man, if we fail to protect him from a known threat, I absolutely believe we will be guilty of abandoning a brave and honorable man to be murdered by criminals. That is my belief. At the very minimum, Judge, please consider: if we do not act to protect him, we are without doubt failing in our duty to serve justice and allow the _court_ to decide his fate. Can we at least agree on that?"

Bentley paused, then nodded, finally conceding. "Yes. Marshal, we can agree on that point. I will grant you the writ to find an alternate location to incarcerate Heath Barkley, within the limits of Carson City, a location subject to my approval, which, I emphasize, I can rescind at any point I feel it appropriate. Is that acceptable? Very well. We can review the details after you have taken custody of him. I'll have my clerk prepare the documents."

"I am certainly glad you've agreed to this proposal, Judge, because otherwise we'd be having a _much_ more prolonged conversation, and I want to see my son as soon as possible." A woman's voice. Melodic, yes, but alto in pitch, with precise diction, clarity, and absolute confidence in the message to be delivered.

Both men turned, surprised by the interruption. Victoria Barkley walked purposefully into the room, her son Jarrod one pace behind and looking hugely relieved. There was nothing relaxed or reassured in her bearing, however. She was focused, intent, and prepared to do battle. She spoke courteous words of greeting, and accepted her son's introductions of the judge and chief marshal with regal courtesy. Marshal Smith, however, had no doubt this woman was a warrior, sure of her ground, and ready to fight to the death for her son. Her _adopted_ son, he remembered. By the time she had crossed the room to the judge's desk, Smith was captivated by her, lost in admiration. She was beautiful. She was petite, elegant as a queen and yet rough-and-ready in her dusty, but perfectly tailored, riding clothes. She was fierce, powerful.

He suddenly realized she was speaking to him. He snatched his hat from his head. "My apologies, ma'am. I – I was – Could you repeat what you just said? And can I offer you a chair?"

An indulgent smile slowly spread across Jarrod's face as he watched the sharp, taciturn, and supremely confident lawman suddenly stumble over himself and struggle to speak his native language when confronted with his mother.

"Thank you, Marshal," she said as she accepted the chair. "I was expressing my gratitude to you for your advocacy on behalf of my son Heath." Even within the formal structure of her phrases, he could hear the love in her voice when she spoke of her son. He found himself wondering what it would be like to be loved by this woman.

"Marshal?" That was Jarrod, a layer of amusement coloring his voice.

"Ah, yes, sorry, ma'am. You're – you're very welcome." Smith twisted the brim of his hat. "I'll be off in a moment to go collect him from the prison. You have –" He looked up, meeting her eyes, expecting her to be amused by him. He was well aware that he had been knocked right off his balance by Mrs. Barkley, and she was well within her rights to be laughing at him. He did see amusement, yes, but she also was looking upon him with genuine appreciation. That steadied him. "It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Barkley. Your three sons are good men. I aim to keep your boy safe until all this can get cleared up."

"Thank you, Marshal." She looked pointedly at Judge Bentley. "I want Heath home where he belongs. He not only has our "support", Judge, he has our love and devotion. And know this: That backwoods petty dictator, trading in mens' lives - _he_ will be brought to justice. He may think he's above the law. But he went after my sons, and that will be his undoing. He will be stopped."


	72. chapter 72

_Nevada State Prison, earlier that day, July 1874_

The sun was just beginning to peek over the flat eastern horizon as Heath was escorted across the prison yard toward the quarry. It was a windless morning, already dry and hot. The men's footsteps raised small dustclouds that lingered in place for some minutes before settling back to earth. Before him, Heath could see the haze of rock dust hovering over the quarry, a ragged deep hole in the ground like a giant's footprint of broken stone. He could hear voices, and the sound of picks and shovels.

They entered the work zone, their path taking them diagonally across to the farthest corner of the excavation. It occurred to Heath that Donovan had chosen that assignment to ensure that the inmates and guards would have a good, long look at him as they walked him through. The picks and shovels gradually halted as he passed, and the talk gave way to silence or low muttering. The memory of Bentell _offering_ him to his dogs as if he was a treat or a toy suddenly surged into Heath's mind, snatching his breath away. He shook his head, stumbling slightly, trying to push the image from his mind. _I can't go there. Don't go there. Not now. This is just another time someone wants to teach me who's boss._ Heath tried to ignore the feeling of all those eyes upon him _. Donovan's worried. He's in trouble and he knows it. He wouldn't be on me like this otherwise._ The sounds of work gradually picked up behind him. Talk drifted to him in fragments.

"Quit gapin', inmate. Back to work. _That_ one's gonna be ours."

"No problem, boss. What with Donovan on one side and this mad dog mongrel on the other, I ain't gettin' betwixt 'em."

"I wonder how much he took that family for -"

"More'n you'll ever see in your lifetime. You just stay away from him. They say he's crazy from the war."

"War? Nah. It's just bad breedin'. It always shows in the end. He's getting what's due 'im, the XO'll see to that."

The talk faded behind him as they arrived at the northwest section. No other workers here, just five officers of the guard, waiting for him, lounging in a loose circle with their shotguns. Behind them was a wide steep-sided ditch. The bottom was partly covered by opaque brown water, together with several large piles of loose rock.

Heath heard a heavy step behind him, and a deep chuckle. A big hand settled on the back of his neck in what, from a distance, could be seen as a friendly gesture.

"Meet your first shift supervisors, Barkley. My guys had to draw straws to see who'd get you first. They've all been looking forward to it."

Heath decided to be direct. "What are you getting at, here, Donovan? What's the message? Seems there's quicker ways to kill me if that's the point."

The big hand on his neck slid down and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "Kill you? No, no, no. I just want you to consider all your options after our talk last night. I can see you're a man that likes to think things over. This way, you'll truly see the relative value of what I'm offering you."

Heath sighed. "Donovan, I don't know where Peterson is, and even if I did have a clue, I wouldn't give it to you. I'm not giving you _me_ , either. So it looks like me and your boys here are gonna have a long day."

Donovan laughed out loud. "You hear that, boys? A long _day_? It's _summertime_ , Barkley. This quarry is working around the clock, twenty four hours a day. You can think over your choices for as long as you like."

He punctuated his last statement by giving Heath a hearty slap on the back, hard enough that he staggered and his eyes watered with pain. Heath blinked and recovered his balance to look behind him, but Donovan was gone, already far across the quarry.


	73. chapter 73

_Nevada State Prison, July, 1874_

It had been a day of beatings with boots, fists, gun stocks and at least one truncheon, broken up by the endless moving of boulders from one side of the muddy ditch to the other, or from the bottom of the ditch to the top. Day shift ended, and traded out for a new and eager group of evening shift officers. If Heath made it that far, there was also a fresh crew ready to take over for the overnight shift. The pain of the bullet wound in his side, horrific in the morning, remained so, but that fire had blended in to the general misery of his body. There was an active betting pool across the entire quarry as to how long he'd last.

"That is _not_ the rock I told you to move, inmate. You seem to be having trouble following directions. Do I need to explain it to you again?"

Heath struggled to the top of the embankment, half-pushing, half-carrying a muddy block of sandstone. He lost his footing, falling to his hands and knees in the shadow of one of the officers. There he stayed for a few moments, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"I asked you a question. Do I need to explain it to you again?"

"I - I guess you'd better, boss," he wheezed, faintly.

The officer snarled. "No-good rabid _mutt_. Waste of time. Oughta just put you down." He kicked Heath hard in the side, sending him rolling down into the mud at the bottom of the ditch. Then he planted his boot on the boulder and shoved that down the embankment as well. Heath saw it coming in time to get his head out of the way, but caught the full momentum of the block with his torso. It knocked him flat on his back, and then rolled a few more yards to disappear into the water.

Heath lay still, mud seeping into his ears, and tried to remember how to breathe. For several agonizing moments he gasped uselessly like a fish out of water, his brain shouting commands that his chest and diaphragm were unable or unwilling to follow.

"Well, Barkley, I'm glad to see you're back where you belong."

Heath squinted up toward the top of the embankment, his vision blurred by mud and sun. He didn't need to see to know who spoke, though. With a Herculean effort, Heath drew enough breath to respond.

"Welcome home, Risley," he managed, between gasps for air. "C'mon down here and I...I'll show you...show you around."

Risley laughed. "Don't be so sure the tables have turned on me yet, boy. I plan to see you hang."

Heath couldn't come up with enough breath to speak again. He heard an officer speaking respectfully to Risley, addressing him as Captain, offering him a meal and a drink. Before he had a chance to ponder this new development, there was the sound of a gunshot, and a spray of dirt as a bullet struck the ground next to him. Reflexively he rolled to the side, his body yelling in pain.

"Just getting your attention, mutt. Back to work."

According to his internal clock, it was almost 9 pm. The sun was angling away. All day it had been blazing down into the ditch in which he labored. Heath had found himself grateful for the mud and water that at least gave him some protection from the heat. Nothing to drink, though. He was aware he was long past thirsty and well into the territory of dehydration.

"I want that rock pile up and out of the ditch."

Heath brought the first boulder up to the top of the embankment, pushing it to roll ahead of him. The officer approached, and then placed his foot on Heath's hand, trapping it between his boot and the stony ground. The pain was immense. Reflexively, Heath reached to push the foot away, but was met with a pistol pointed at his face. He dropped his head, biting back on the pain as the officer slowly leaned more weight onto his hand.

"My cousin was one of those men you killed at Leviathan."

"I'm - I'm sorry you lost y -" Heath gasped, "lost your cousin. He shouldn't a tried to - to kill my brothers -"

The officer cursed him. He removed his foot, planting it instead on Heath's neck and shoving him hard back toward the ditch. As Heath tried to scramble clear, the officer closed on him and began beating him ferociously with his boots and the stock of his shotgun. Heath went to ground at the top of the embankment, covering his head and wondering how willing this guard was to disobey his XO about not killing him. Then he blacked out for a while.

He surfaced to the hellish sunset glow of the rock dust and terrible pain everywhere. He was shivering and his mouth was full of mud. As the blurred world around him came slowly into focus, he saw the giant shape of Donovan standing over him, smiling. Heath rolled with a whimper and tried to crawl away, gasping with pain. Reports were arriving from various parts of his body with bad news. His left forearm seemed broken, along with several ribs and maybe his nose. Still, he tried to drag himself away from Donovan.

"Oh, now, don't run off, boy," Donovan said indulgently, as he strolled alongside. Struggling for each breath, each inch, Heath kept going, though to where, he had no idea.

Donovan stepped forward, straddling him, and crouched down, grabbing Heath by the scruff of the neck. He leaned in close and wrapped his forearm around his neck, lifting him up against his chest, his other hand exploring lower. A few of the officers smirked and nodded to each other.

"Get - get off me -" Heath gritted out, barely audible. "Get off -" He bit back a yell as Donovan slid his hand between his legs and squeezed hard. For a moment, he was submerged in a wave of nausea. Pain then reasserted its dominance, and whatever strength he had left dissolved. His arms gave out, and Donovan pulled him in tighter, his hand roaming where it pleased. Heath's broken ribs screamed in protest. Donovan chuckled and nuzzled his neck, as Heath tried again to get free. "Get off - I will kill you. Believe me. I - damn you - " The words were choked off as the arm around his neck tightened and the ground in front of his face began to blur.

Heath confronted the fact that he had no physical fight left in him. He was tapped out, and between the pain of his injuries and the weight of the man pinning him down, he was as helpless as he'd ever been. His head was spinning, and he fought to remain conscious. He might not be able to stop Donovan from doing whatever he planned to do, but if there _was_ a shot, he'd have to be awake to take it. Unconscious, he'd have no chance. But even that was slipping out of reach. He heard more laughter, encouraging comments from the officers, some other distant shouts, all becoming jumbled together.

Shouting came closer, and someone fired a shotgun. Donovan yanked him to his knees, his forearm still locked around his neck. His deep bass voice rumbled in his ear.

"What a shame. I was gonna have so much fun with you. But looks like the game has changed. I'm gonna have to break your neck instead."

Through the pain-blurred haze of his mind and the mud in his eyes Heath fought to focus, just for one moment, on what was happening around him. He heard a voice yelling at Donovan to give it up. All Heath knew for sure was that the man behind him was shifting his grip and preparing to break his neck. He felt a rush of fierce joy. This - _this_ was something he could do something about.

He slumped forward slightly as the grip on him loosened. He felt Donovan adjust his balance to pull Heath into a lethal headlock. In that brief moment, Heath snapped his head hard backwards, shattering Donovan's nose and two of his front teeth. Before the big man toppled Heath slammed an elbow into his larynx for good measure. Then he fell to the ground. He was oblivious to all else around him, including gunfire flying overhead. Heath dragged himself as far clear of the man as he could, kept moving until he couldn't move anymore. Then he passed out.


	74. chapter 74

_Nevada State Prison, July, 1874_

In his years of experience and as part of his profession, Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal John Smith was observant of human behavior and body language. One of his many observations was that men in a circle, encouraging or being entertained by something in the middle of the circle, were typically up to no good, and often were up to something really bad. This was his immediate reaction when he scanned the prison yard, looking for his missing fugitive.

The process of carrying out the judge's writ was maddeningly slow. Once he had the documents, Smith headed directly for the prison, bringing with him Jarrod (as attorney), Deputy Ramos, and Joe Cooper, one of Driscoll's men, whom he had deputized to give his team a weightier presence when they arrived at the gates.

Once there, however, they meet with one bureaucratic delay after another. It was determined that only the warden could execute the transfer, and he was away. The XO could step in, but he was engaged in an urgent situation in the prison. Smith was quite sure that urgent situation involved his fugitive, and so sent Driscoll's man at top speed to bring Warden Hyman directly to the prison.

Even with the arrival of the warden, Hyman would not execute the order before thoroughly reviewing it himself and then reading in the context of a review of prison policy for such circumstances. When he suggested he discuss it with the judge, to clarify a question of documentation, Smith finally lost his grip on his impatience. But all he said was: "Hyman. The writ is fine. But if that boy is murdered in _your_ prison, on _your_ watch, while we were standing out here jawing about policy, it's going to look _terrible_ on your biennial report."

And with that, they were in. They went first to the medical block, where they found Risley being tended to by the doctor.

"Where's Barkley?"

"I don't know," said the doctor vaguely. "Mr Donovan merely told me he was no longer assigned to this block."

Smith looked at Risley. "Don't get too comfortable," he advised. "This thing is over. I'll be back for you."

They headed out into the yard. Jarrod squinted into the growing dusk. "Tim said they were taking him to the quarry before dawn. Could he still be there?"

"That'd be a long day in the rocks," Smith said, more to himself than anyone else. He had a very bad feeling. He started walking rapidly toward the quarry. About halfway into the work area, Smith spotted the circle of officers. He felt a rage rising in him, kept it in check. He turned to Ramos. "There. You see them?" Ramos nodded, frowning. "Your job, with Jarrod and Joe, is to disarm those guards. I'll get Heath. You understand? I'm guessing Donovan is there. I'm expecting him to resist. I don't know what the officers will do, but I hope they'll stand down promptly, and I want the shotguns out of their hands." The three men nodded, faces grim.

Arriving at the northwest section, they could see now what the officers had circled around. Smith took a second to place a hand on Jarrod's arm. Smith knew what he himself was feeling, and he could only imagine what a man might feel seeing his brother beaten down into the mud like this. "Jarrod. Steady now. I'll get him. Don't go shooting anyone we don't need to shoot. Help Ramos disarm those guards." Jarrod looked at him gratefully, clearly struggling with his emotions.

Smith fired his shotgun in the air. "Donovan! We are federal marshals! Step away from that inmate and put your hands in the air!"

Smith watched him pull Heath up in front of him, holding him as a human shield and threatening to snap his neck if the marshals didn't back off. Heath was alive, but barely conscious, from what he could see. Smith pulled out his sidearm, but had no clear shot at Donovan without risking Heath.

Smith realized then: Donovan meant to kill Heath, no matter what, as his last swipe at the world before he went down. He could see him shifting his hold on the boy, who looked like a broken rag doll in his grip. But then it seemed to Smith that Heath looked over at him, for just a second. Looked at him and smiled. Before Smith knew what was happening, Donovan was laid out in the ground, wheezing and bleeding from the mouth and nose, and Heath was on the ground trying to crawl away.

Much as he wanted to run directly to Heath, Smith knew not to take his attention off Donovan. And sure enough, the big man roused and launched himself after Heath, pulling a knife from his boot as he did. Smith fired twice, and Donovan went down in a heap.

Holstering his pistol, Smith cast a quick glance over to see that the officers were docile, as he expected them to be once disarmed and without their leader. He checked Donovan, to confirm he was dead. Then he hurried to Heath, joined seconds later by Jarrod.

Smith sat on the ground and gently rolled the unconscious man onto his back, lifting Heath's upper body into his lap so he could prop him up and support his head on his arm. "Jarrod, can you get some water, and blankets? Ask that kid Tim."

Tim was soon back with what they needed, and Smith gently cleaned Heath's face, wiping mud from his mouth and eyes while Jarrod pulled off his wet shirt and wrapped a blanket around his shivering torso. There was talking and commotion around them. Smith called Ramos over.

"Clear everyone out, would you? You know this boy's going to wake up scared and fighting, and the more peace and quiet around him, the better. Then we have to get him to a hospital."

A few moments later, Heath started to rouse, and as Smith expected, he woke up scared and fighting. Before Heath could thrash around too much and hurt himself, Smith pulled him in close against his chest and held him, lowering his head to murmur in Heath's ear like he was gentling a wild horse.

"Shh, shh, it's ok, Heath, you're safe. It's me, you know me, it's Marshal Smith. Shh, it's ok, we have you, we're taking you to your family. No need to fight right now. I've got you."

Jarrod watched as Heath slowly stopped fighting. All the tension gradually left his body as he leaned into Smith, letting the older man prop him up and steady him. Heath took a few deep breaths, and looked at the marshal as if to speak. Then, to Jarrod's amazement, he saw Heath drop his head, turn his face into Smith's chest - and just cry. His hands came up to grip the back of the marshal's shirt as if he were holding on for dear life. Smith kept his arms around him, holding him steady, telling him he was safe and he'd bring him home.

Jarrod found himself remembering a time when he was a boy. He'd taken a bad fall with his pony. He had been frightened, and injured - a broken finger - and heartbroken because his pony had broken her leg and had to be put down. He was 10, old enough to be a boy that doesn't cry, but that day he sat with his father and cried his eyes out. His father held him, and told it would be ok, that the pain of the finger and the loss and the fear would ease with time, and he felt safe. Terribly sad, but safe. Jarrod knew no one grew up without pain and loss, though some, like Heath, had far more than their share. But how do you get through it without at least feeling safe and loved? Heath had his mother's love, but she couldn't keep him safe. And he never had his father at all.

Tim came running up. "Mr Barkley, we have a wagon ready right at the gate to take your brother to the hospital."

"We? Who's 'we'?"

"Well, me. I got it ready and contacted the hospital to let them know you were coming."

"Thank you, Tim. I won't forget what you've done for us."

He looked back at Smith. Heath seemed to be out again, or asleep. Smith nodded and stood, easily lifting Heath in his arms, and walked toward the main gate. There was silence in the yard as they passed. No muttering, no threats or nasty comments. Just silence.

Not surprising, the rest of the family could not wait at the hotel for news. Victoria stood by the hospital wagon and watched as the tall marshal carried her wounded son from the prison yard. She could see Heath rouse to say something, and Smith bent his head to reply, after which Heath seemed to relax and rest his head against the marshal's chest. Like Jarrod, Victoria was moved by this, and she looked at Smith with renewed appreciation. _If Heath trusts this man after what they've been through,_ she thought, _then he must be a good man._ _I'm so grateful for that._


	75. chapter 75

_Nevada State Prison, July, 1874_

The gas lights around the stone walls of the prison facility glowed to life as the sun set. At the heavy wrought iron gates, an open wagon stood waiting to serve as an ambulance. Additional guards had been called in by Warden Hyman, who anticipated trouble in response to the judge's order, but these guards had not yet been given assignments, so they milled about the entry, happy for the extra pay. Their casual chatter stopped, however, as the form of the tall marshal appeared in the lamplight, carrying a man who appeared to be grievously injured. The man appeared to be just an inmate, and a filthy one at that, but the marshal's demeanor was one of such focused care and concern that the guards quieted and stood aside as he passed.

Passing out of the walled prison yard, Smith looked toward the waiting transport. Jarrod hurried ahead of him to reach his mother's side and bring her to Heath. Victoria looked at Smith as he approached, and their eyes met. He could feel the weight of her fear for her son. He prayed he could give her hope and support, but he was deeply worried about the young man in his arms. Through the rough blanket he could feel Heath was cold and in shock; his heartbeat was rapid, the pulse thready, his breathing shallow and irregular. He was shivering still, but it came and went, his muscles unable to keep up the effort. It was as if the struggle with Smith when he awoke took the last bit of fight he had. Heath had roused once briefly to ask Smith who he was, as Smith carried him out of the yard. When he got his answer, he nodded once, then lost consciousness again and lay still.

Victoria rushed to Smith's side to walk with him to the ambulance. She could barely reconcile the muddy, battered wraith in the marshal's arms with the vigorous, graceful son she had watched jump on his horse and ride away with Nick almost two months ago.

Heath had been eager for a trek through the mountains he knew so well. The cooler altitudes would be a welcome break from the heat of the valley, even though it would be even hotter on the eastern descent. It was clear Heath loved being on the trail with Nick. She could see how well they worked together, how they complemented each other. It was evident even in the bantering argument that had started in the stable and could be heard continuing as they headed away from the ranch on that morning in June. She had kissed them both goodbye, and had felt blessed, as the last thing she heard was the two of them laughing together before they were out of sight.

But now Heath was so still, so quiet, and she felt a growing panic that he was slipping away down river, slipping away from her.

Smith said softly, "Victoria." Said it again, so she tore her eyes away and looked at him. "He's not leaving us. Not yet. You just stay by him and we'll let him know we're here taking care of him. You and Jarrod put that stretcher right here so we can lift him together up into the wagon."

 _Thunder rolled through the mountain valley, ricocheting up the ravine that contained Herring Creek. One cloudburst after another had been rumbling through Strawberry all day and right into the evening, turning the roads and pathways to mud and swelling the river to the top of her banks. The guests stuck at Matt Simmons' hotel, never known to be a happy crowd on the best of days, were cranky, bored, and complaining about the mud, the rain, and lack of decent food and whiskey._

 _Not one to manage any kind of difficult feeling well, Simmons was in a foul mood himself, put upon by his customers and unappreciated by his wife. The muddy footprints he found across the back porch, tracking toward the kitchen, became the match to his fuse._

 _The small blonde boy, just turned 7, was making a few extra pennies running some canned goods from the store over to the hotel. He exited the kitchen, calling a happy thank you to the cook who had given him a slice of bread with butter. He stepped out onto the porch, licking his fingers, not wanting to miss a single crumb._

 _"You filthy little mutt. Look at this porch. Did you track this mud all the way into the kitchen?"_

 _One look at his Uncle Matt and Heath tried to make a break for it, but he slipped on the wet mossy planks and Matt got his hands on him, lifting him up by his hair and one leg.The big man threw the boy bodily back up onto the porch, then proceeded to beat him bloody with hands and fists, repeatedly demanding a respectful apology throughout. He got none._

 _Matt decided that this could not stand. The disrespectful bastard pup was going to apologize. Matt's middle-aged knuckles were paining him, however. He left the boy in a small wet pile on the planks, and stepped to the edge of the woods to find a good sapling to beat him with._

 _Turning back to the porch, stick in hand, he saw the boy was gone._

 _"Damn him!" There was no sign of the kid in the darkening woods. Matt stepped off the porch and began to search._

 _Heath sprinted through the woods, oblivious to the blood flowing from his nose or the pain from the black eye, bruises, and broken collarbone over which his mother would later weep. Instinctively he ran for the river. He had always liked the sound of the river. She sang a familiar song, and he loved the way she wrapped around anything in her way and kept on flowing, one way or another, all the way down the mountain and into the valley. He ran for the river. He could hear the man crashing through the woods behind him. Lightning flashed, and thunder echoed over the flowing water. Heath skidded to a halt in the mud at the river's edge, and shimmied himself under the dock to hide._

 _He did not have long to wait before he heard Matt's boots tread the dock over his head. Matt was out of breath, furious still, muttering and swearing under his breath. Heath stayed still, so still. He flinched, as, in frustration, Matt swatted the heavy sapling hard against the side of the dock, one, two, three times. A massive crack of thunder overhead masked the noise of fear Heath couldn't completely suppress, and the downpour that then commenced was enough to drive Matt Simmons trudging back inside._

 _Still, Heath remained hidden. He had been caught by his uncle in the past when he came out of hiding too soon, and he was well aware that Matt could kill him, given the right mix of rage, opportunity, and bad whiskey. So Heath waited, as the river sang louder and the rain beat down onto the old wooden dock. The ground, saturated from days of falling water, began to swell, then shift. Suddenly it seemed to Heath that the riverbank slumped under his body, causing the pilons and beams of the dock to collapse, pinning him underneath._

 _Heath started to crawl out from under, initially confident he'd be able to squeeze beneath the wooden structure. He quickly found that the dock had sunk heavily into the softening ground below, and was far too massive for him to move, essentially trapping him in a cage as the mud and water rose to fill it. Heath became frantic. Over and over he dove beneath the frigid water, searching for a place he could dig out underneath to escape._

As they settled the stretcher in the back of the wagon, Smith and Victoria climbed in beside Heath and began to get more blankets around him and under his head. Victoria spoke to him quietly, gently. Heath struggled weakly to move, grimacing in pain. "Mama - help -" She could barely hear him, the words hardly more than a breath.

 _He did not hear his mother calling to him, screaming for him, until she was right there at the dock, gasping and straining to lift it out of the mud. She was soaking wet, her blonde hair plastered to her face._

 _"Heath, baby, I'm here. I'm gonna get something to lift this thing up."_

 _She was back in a moment, wading into the rapidly flowing water with a long tree limb. She jammed it under the side beams of the dock, using a standing boulder as a fulcrum. "Honey," she yelled over the cacophony of rain and river and wind and thunder. "When I lift this up, you git, and fast, you hear?"_

 _He nodded, shivering too badly now to speak._

 _She leaned and pushed, roaring at the water-logged dock, commanding it to move. When it did, she yelled "Go!", but Heath was already out, scrambling up the muddy river bank. She staggered over to him through the rising current, scooping him up and holding him to her. Her hands and face were so cold, but she was warm, and soft, and she hugged him tight, and he buried his face in her hair. "I'm sorry, Mama - I tried to get away -"_

Heath turned his head, eyes closed, shivering. "Mama -" Heath whispered. "I'm sorry -" and then lay still again.

Smith and Victoria looked at each other. He couldn't bear the pain in her eyes. _She is not going to lose her son. I will not let that happen._

There was a sound of more people arriving. Jarrod called to them, "The doctor's here," and Smith rose to make room for the physician and help Victoria down from the wagon. He could hear the sound of two other horses arriving to the courtyard at a gallop, pulling up hard close at hand. Descending from the transport, Smith was aware of a whirlwind dismounting and dropping to the ground just behind him. He turned, and found himself pinioned by a pair of now-familiar blue eyes, advancing even closer to him with palpable rage, a rifle in her right hand.

 _OK,_ Smith thought. _This is the sister. No question about that._

"Who did this to him? Who _did_ this, and where are they?" she demanded of Smith, leaning to look around him at her brother.

Nick and Victoria simultaneously began to speak. "Audra -"

"Don't you tell me to calm down. Don't you _dare_."

"Audra, please," Nick said softly, amazed to find himself the voice of reason. "We have him. That's all that matters right now. We have him and we have to get him to the hospital. Now."

Jarrod added, "One of the men who did this is dead, shot by Marshal Smith here not ten minutes ago. The other one is an inmate of this prison, and soon, I hope, to be prosecuted and hanged. Marshal Smith, you know our brother Nick already, and this force of nature is our sister Audra. Now let's get moving, Tim, can you drive? Fast?"

"Yes, sir."

From the moment the marshal lifted his body up out of the quarry, Heath had felt himself floating somewhere outside himself, floating like a dry leaf riding currents of air above a raging river of cold snowmelt. He was weightless, but now he felt a tugging, a pull, to let himself sink. _I don't want to,_ he thought. _It's cold, it's painful, I'm so tired - Mama, can't I just go with you? Just take me home with you?_

Audra moved forward to look in at her brother, lying so pale and still on the stretcher. "Oh God, Heath, please, don't go, please don't go -" She reached out to hold his right hand. "Heath -"

 _My sister. My family._

He fell back down into the icy river, pummeled by rocks and rapids. _Goodbye, Mama, I love you_. As Audra held his hand and called to him, Heath stirred, swallowed, coughed, and then moaned as he felt himself enveloped in pain.

Victoria came to stand by Audra. Heath took a breath, and seemed to be trying to open his eyes.

"Mother...Audra?" he whispered faintly. "You're here?"

"We're here." With the doctor's prompting, Victoria asked, "Heath, are you thirsty? Can we give you some water?"

He nodded, "Thirsty." He drank a few swallows gratefully, then coughed, which brought tears of pain to his eyes. He looked around till he saw Jarrod, and said weakly, "I promised that nice Spanish doctor I wouldn't get beat up again and ruin his work... but I...I guess I made a mess of that... and now Mother and Audra have to come all the way up here to straighten things out..." He coughed again, this time causing enough pain that he couldn't stifle a sob. He rolled to his side, arms wrapped around his stomach, and buried his face in a blanket to muffle any sounds of pain that might escape.

Jarrod climbed in back with his mother and Heath, while Smith sat up front with Tim. Nick and Audra rode close behind, and they headed out to the hospital.

 _Carson_ _City Hospital, August, 1874_

It was well over a week before Heath had permission to be up out of bed and have visitors other than immediate family. The doctor had his hands full initially keeping his patient alive and out of the woods, fending off the dangers - wound infection, blood clots, nerve injury, pneumonia - that often will kill or cripple a patient who's managed to survive the initial trauma. There were several trips to the operating room, many more treatments at the bedside.

The Barkleys had practically moved into the hospital, in constant attendance. It was as if they had made an unspoken decision: if Heath couldn't be home, they would create home around him. So even if he was sleeping, or semi-conscious, they carried on as family around him, talking, playing cards, arguing, tending to him, discussing ranch business or whatever was in the news. When he was awake, they pulled him into the flow as much as he had energy for. They made a cocoon of love and safety and belief around him, within which he could heal.

But he was chomping at the bit to get outside. As soon as he had permission, and the doctor was satisfied with the cast on his left arm, Heath took a slow walk in the shady sandstone courtyard of the hospital supported by Audra's strong shoulder, and watched over by his attentive mother and his two protective big brothers. Looking at them, he felt blessed, grateful beyond measure.

"Hey, Thomson!" a voice boomed across the courtyard.

None of the family reacted initially, this not being a name they ever used or often thought about. But Heath's head came up immediately.

"Heath Thomson! Stop right there, young man. You've got some explaining to do!"

Heath started to smile. "Mikey...?" He turned.

"How is it possible? Ten years have gone by - during which time, I hear, you've been taken in by one of the richest families in California - ten _years_ , and yet aside from being a few inches taller, you look as bad as you did the last time I saw you in New Mexico? _Seriously_ , boy. You might even look a little worse. Don't these Barkleys feed you? Don't you use tools on that ranch of yours, or do you pound in fence posts with your face?"

"Been a rough summer. I guess it shows," he laughed. "Mikey. _Damn_ , it's good to see you." They embraced, Mike intuitively not squashing the man he knew was bruised all over.

"You've met my family, I see. When do I get to meet yours?"

"They're all here. No way would any of the kids stay home. You're a legend in our family."

As if on cue, five red-headed children ran into the courtyard, vigorously debating something. They were followed by their mother, and Tom and Lisa.

"No _way_ you can hit that," stated Mike Jr.

"Yeah, no way," echoed Rebecca and Sam in unison.

"Oh, yes she can," Tommy countered. "What you wanna bet?"

"I'll muck your stalls for you tomorrow. But if she misses, you do it when it's my turn."

"Deal," Tommy said. He turned to his twin. "You ready?"

"Always," she grinned. "But what do _I_ get if I hit it?"

"You'll be my hero," he said, smiling back.

"Fair enough. That way, away from the building." She hefted three round walnut-sized rocks in her left hand. She took one in her right and nodded.

Tommy took the heavy tin plate he was holding and flung it into the air as high as he could. At the top of its flight, Artemis pegged it with a stone, the sound of contact ringing across the courtyard. As it fell, she threw two more. The first connected, the second missing as the plate began to spin erratically. She and Tommy whooped and slapped hands.

"Aah," Mike Jr. said, smiling himself. "Shoulda known not to bet against you, sis."

Mike leaned his head toward Heath. "I've heard that said before. Remember?"

Heath nodded sadly, remembering Lt. Bradley. Then he grinned and shook his head. "She's got some eye, Mikey. Boy howdy."

Mikey laughed aloud. "Yes she does, like her namesake. Artemis, kids, c'mon over here and meet Heath!"

They ran over in a pack. "Heath, this is my oldest, Mike Jr.. These are the twins. Tommy, named after my brother. And meet your namesake, his sister Artemis."

Heath looked confused.

Artemis hesitated, then offered, "My first name is Heather. But I - I like my middle name better. Artemis was the Greek goddess of the hunt. She could ride and run like the wind, and she could hit anything she aimed at. But - um - I'm still glad to be named after you, Mr Thomson."

Heath knelt down and shook her hand. He said seriously, "Artemis, the honor is mine. Thank you. And you've got quite an eye, the goddess would be proud too."

Heath looked up at Tommy. "If she's Artemis, that would make you - hmm - Apollo, right?"

Tommy looked pleased. "Yes sir. But I like Tommy better, myself."

Artemis said proudly, "He can sing like an angel. And he's pretty good with a bow and arrow."

Heath smiled at her. "I can see you know your Greek gods. So - you're the huntress. You a good rider?"

"She's the best!" said a littler voice emphatically.

"This is Rebecca, and her little brother is Sam. Helena told me that the name Rivka is Rebecca in English."

"Yes. Yes it is," Heath said, looking at the vibrant family in wonder. "I'm so happy for you, Mike."

"As we are for you, pal. This is my wife, Helena, and Tom's wife, Lisa."

"Good to meet you both, ladies." He turned to Tom. "Thank you, Tom. I'm grateful to you."

"I'm the one who's grateful. For my brother - and also for reminding me who I am. I'd rather do my time, pay my dues, and have my soul back."

"Well you did that part yourself, Tom. Anything we can do to help, you just say the word."


	76. chapter 76

_Carson City Hospital, August, 1874_

It was dusk, and as the day cooled, the Peterson children played a game of blind man's bluff out in the middle of the courtyard. Jarrod and Audra had decided to be the host and hostess of their visitors, and had set up a picnic under the covered walkway of the hospital. Helena, Audra, and Lisa were engaged in a lively debate about the school curriculum. Victoria had stepped inside to speak with the doctor. Mike was spinning another tale for the men about the unusual characters that populated Carson City. They were all laughing.

Jarrod commented, "Mike, listening to you is like reading a Dickens novel. These people wouldn't seem nearly so colorful if I described them."

Nick chuckled from his seat on a low stone wall. "You're right about that, Jarrod - hey, Heath, you ok?"

Heath had been leaning back against the wall by Nick's knee, enjoying the talk, but now he was leaning into Nick's leg, doubled over, his arms wrapped around his chest.

He groaned, his voice muffled. "Mike, stop making me laugh. I can't take anymore. Nick, make him stop."

"Don't you be sending your big brother after me! OK, fine, I'll shut up."

On the far side of the courtyard, the outer door opened, and Marshal Smith stepped in. The past few days had given him a chance to get cleaned up from the trail, including a shave and a hair cut, and he was happy to have on a fresh set of clothes. He was a handsome man, but his serious demeanor and his comfort with silence made many people slightly uncomfortable around him. He was aware of this, and it suited him to remain on the perimeter in social situations. He was a man who preferred to learn by watching and listening.

As he entered, Victoria also stepped in to the courtyard from the doctor's office. Seeing him, she smiled and approached. He took off his hat.

"Evening, Mrs Barkley."

"Please, call me Victoria. May I call you John?"

"Yes, ma'am. How is Heath, and the rest of your family?"

"Recovering. Definitely recovering."

"I'm so glad. It must be a huge relief to you to have everyone together and safe."

"Thanks in large part to you, John. I can't tell you how much I appreciate -" She broke off, still deeply emotional about what her sons had been through, and what could have happened.

"I understand."

"Would you walk with me for a bit, John?" She slipped her arm through his. "There's a garden on the south side of the hospital."

"My pleasure." He couldn't imagine a better place to be, than strolling in a garden with Victoria Barkley. He looked down at her. She was beautiful, intelligent, elegant, and yet so direct and focused, so _present_ in the moment. It was a remarkable combination. His experience of beautiful elegant ladies was that their thoughts and attention were often...elsewhere.

"Do you have family, John?"

"I have brothers and sisters on both sides of the divide. Family of my own, well, now there's just my daughter, Grace. She's married - her husband is a carpenter, and they also breed horses on a spread outside Sacramento. First grandbaby on its way in a few months. I lost my wife many years ago, when the kids were still small. My Caroline...she had a cancer. I lost my boy James in the war. He was 24. The one consolation I have is that Caroline wasn't alive to see that. Losing a child - well I sure didn't want you to have to experience it if I could do something to prevent it." He looked down at Victoria, then over at Heath, sitting with his brothers. "I like to think Caroline was there waiting for our boy when he died."

"I'm so sorry, John."

"It's been some years now. Gets a little easier. I visit with Grace a few times a year. I have family in Stockton, actually. My sister Emily married Henry Winters, the station master."

"Emily is your sister? I know her well. She is a magician in the garden."

"Yep, that's Emily. I swear she could make a pile of bricks bloom."

They walked and talked until it was truly dark, and Victoria felt it was long past time to escort Heath back to bed. They returned to the courtyard to find that Nick and Jarrod had already made that determination, and had carried Heath up to bed because he had fallen asleep on Nick's knee.

The three women and Mike were rounding up the children. Tom stood waiting for Smith, a somber look on his face.

"What's the plan for tomorrow, Marshal?"

"Come to the judge's chambers at 9. He'll make the plea bargain official. Jarrod will be representing you?"

"Yes. Mrs Barkley, you have raised three very good men. I apologize for my part in what's happened."

"Well, one of them raised _himself_ up to be a good man, so I can't take credit for that. But I thank you for saving my son, and I accept your apology. And I wish you the best."

He touched the brim of his hat. "Ma'am. Marshal, I'll see you tomorrow."

As he walked away, Victoria said quietly, "And what is the plan for Heath?"

Smith took a deep breath. Victoria braced herself for bad news. She looked steadily at his face.

"Bentley is going to want _something_. I can't see him wiping all of this off the books."

"What are the possibilities?"

"I hate to speculate. This is where Jarrod's skills come in. Voluntary Manslaughter can carry a sentence from 1 to 10 years. There's the question of multiple counts. Entering a plea vs. going to trial. Reducing a sentence for time served. And of course, how strongly Jarrod can press the defense of self and others. Bentley wants to meet with Heath and Jarrod as soon as possible, tomorrow, even, if Heath is up to it."

"Jarrod will fight to the limit for Heath. We all will."

"I plan to stay in Carson City for the near future. I can work from here just as easily, and I want to see this thing settled in the best way possible for Heath."

"Does Heath know?"

"I haven't discussed it with him. I plan to talk to Jarrod tonight, and discuss it with Heath tomorrow when he's rested. But that boy has a good head on his shoulders, as you've probably noticed. He keeps his eyes open. I'm certain he's expecting something like this from the judge."

"Yes, he does keep his eyes open, John, more than anyone I've ever known, really. He's so strong. I'm more worried about how _I'll_ handle it, how Nick and Audra and Jarrod will handle it, if we can't bring him home."


	77. chapter 77

_Carson City Hospital, August, 1874_

Audra looked in at her brother from the doorway. He was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, dressed, but out of breath. He sat with his hands braced on the bedframe, clearly preparing himself to get up and walk.

"Hey," she said, coming to sit by his side. "You want some help?" She consciously put a smile on her face. She felt huge relief, knowing he was safe, but containing the rage she felt at each one of the bruises she could see - his face, his hands, his neck - was exhausting. And she knew there was far more she hadn't seen. Tears threatened, but she lifted her chin and reached out to smooth his cropped hair. "You look so handsome with your hair so short, you know?"

He laughed ruefully, looking at her sidelong. "If you say so. I tell ya sis, I did ok getting the one boot on, but the second just about did me in." He smiled at her. "How's Charger? You get him settled in ok back home? I promised him you'd take him runnin', on the condition that he took very good care of you."

"Oh, yes, Heath, he's fine. But you're coming home! He won't need me."

"I don't know, Audra. We don't know yet whether I -"

"You _have_ to come home. How could they keep you?"

Heath glanced up as Nick entered the room, frowning. " _Keep_ you? What are you talking about?"

"Listen, it's not for sure yet - Nick, don't yell, just listen for a minute." Heath found himself wishing Jarrod would come back so he could explain all this. His own head was pounding after the long conversation he had with Jarrod and Smith this morning, reviewing the preliminary comments from the judge and debating pros and cons of their various legal options. None of those options seemed to lead to going home, at least not soon.

He turned his eyes back to Audra. _Sister_. Her presence in his life was a miracle of its own. On impulse he reached out to brush the hair from her face and gently stroke her cheek with his thumb. Then he let his hand come down to hold hers. "It breaks my heart to be away from you, away from home," he said in a whisper. "How did that happen? Two years ago, I didn't even _have_ a home. You, the family, you've taken hold of my heart."

"Heath -" she looked afraid, sad.

"What is this about keeping you here!" Nick interjected.

"Jarrod can explain it better," Heath offered. "There are going to be charges filed by the attorney general. Manslaughter. Still questions about how many counts, other details. If I plead guilty, Jarrod could maybe negotiate a lesser charge, a lesser sentence, but I'd still be locked up for a while. If it goes to trial, the judge says he'd insist I stay in prison until it concludes - and with maybe a stiffer sentence at the end. I don't know. I don't know what to do. I've gotta think it through - and so does Jarrod."

Nick was starting to boil. "What? So they plan to lock you back up no matter what, is that it?"

"Easy, Nick, this isn't helping,"Jarrod said, entering with Smith and Victoria.

"But _manslaughter_? We would have been murdered in cold blood if Heath hadn't done what he did. He saved our lives, sure as I'm standing here! How can they put him in jail for that?"

Victoria said, "Jarrod, I think Nick speaks for how we all feel. We want you and Heath to fight this with everything we have. Is there a reason you're hesitating? Do you think we might lose?"

Jarrod was somber. "It's not a clear-cut, easy case, Mother. There are legal precedents that weigh against vigilante actions, even in defense of innocent lives. There's a certain amount of negative public opinion, as we saw with the newspapers over the past days and weeks. And -" He looked pained. "There are things in Heath's history that might make a jury trial an unpleasant, or, even worse, an unsuccessful ordeal."

"Like what?"

"Like, for example, the report the judge received indicating that Heath was dishonorably discharged from the US Army in March of 1865."

Heath flinched, and a look of physical pain crossed his face until he got control of his expression. He took a deep breath and stared at the floor, silent.

" _Dishonourably_?" Nick flared, outrage in his voice. "What kind of -"

"Does the report say why?" Heath interrupted quietly.

Jarrod spoke reluctantly. "Fraud. Falsifying information to your recruiting station. Report says this information came to light toward the close of the war, when it came time to decommission troops that had been liberated from Carterson."

Audra frowned, doing the math, then blurted, "You had only just turned 16 in '65. How...?" She stopped abruptly, understanding.

Heath nodded, still staring at the floor. "I told them I was 16, when I enlisted in '62," he said distantly.

For a moment, he looked unspeakably sad. Then his expression closed, like a book slamming shut. "They told me to be grateful. Told me because of my age, they wouldn't courtmartial me." He looked up at Jarrod. "So you expect the prosecutor would use that against me," he said, more as a comment than a question.

"Oh, yes," Jarrod said. "That's the sort of thing he'd love to use to sway a jury."

"Frank Sawyer knew," Smith said. There was a controlled outrage in his eyes, but his voice was even. "He had that information as part of his background check when he deputized Heath. He knew, but he also knew Heath, and brought him on anyway. Trusted his life to that boy they were calling 'dishonorable'. As would I, in a heartbeat. Put either of us on the stand, Jarrod."

"Tell me this isn't true," said an anguished voice from the doorway. "Heath, boy, you're breaking my heart. Tell me they didn't do that to you." Heath looked up to see Mike in the doorway, near tears. "Heath - they couldn't -"

"They did."

"No - it's not right -"

Heath had been growing increasingly tense since the subject had been broached, his eyes searching the floor as if he could find there an escape from the painful feelings that were threatening his composure. Now he stood, wincing, and limped over to the window, unable to sit in place any longer.

Mike turned to Jarrod. "Our officers _knew_. They let the lie pass, because they needed soldiers like Heath. Bradley knew. We used to joke about it." He flushed with anger. "Guess this saved them some money. Cut 'im loose before they had to give 'im severance pay. And after everything we went through together."

Heath leaned on the window sill, his head bowed as he let the feelings wash over him. "It wasn't losing the money that was the worst, though believe me, that hurt," he murmured, shaking his head. "I had been counting on that pay to send home to my mother." He sighed. "It was -" He looked up at Mike, unable to find the words to describe the feeling of abandonment and betrayal that had accompanied the official letter, delivered to him a few days before he was set to ride out of Carterson. "All I got was a letter. Saying get lost, and be grateful we're not throwing you in jail instead." His voice broke slightly, and he bowed his head again, working to get a grip on himself. Mike walked over to his side. "Mike, I was so _proud_ \- of us, our unit, how we served together. I still am."

"A letter don't change that, Heath, don't change what we were. But it's wrong what they did. _Wrong_."

"No argument from me, Mikey. But this all is beside the point. I still have to decide what to do here. Seems like the general feeling is I should fight it out in court?" He turned to face the people in the room. "Is that what you all think I should do?"


	78. chapter 78

_Car_ _son City Hospital, August, 1874_

Victoria walked over to stand by her son. She laid her hand gently on his chest. She could feel his thinness, see the bruises over his face, his chest, truly any part of his body that wasn't covered by his clothing. She could feel the tension in his muscles, guarding against the pain that came with each breath or movement.

"Heath," she said softly. She waited until he met her gaze. The sadness she saw in his eyes was breaking her heart. She did not see regret in him, though, and that thought gave her resolve. _That has always been his strength,_ she considered. _He concerns himself with whether he's done what seems the right thing to do. If there are consequences for him, he bears them. He is not one to rail against his fate._

"I don't know what to do," he said to her, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Heath, I am so proud of you. We will stand by you regardless of how you choose to go forward. We stand by you, and we love you. No matter whatever, as Audra would say." He smiled down at her. "But you don't need to decide anything right this second. You've had a long morning already. I brought some books and mail for you from home, and we can have some lunch."

He held her gaze for a long moment, thoughtful, then nodded. "Thank you, Mother. For everything."

"I'll get the food," Audra said eagerly.

Nick looked skeptical. "Maybe you should have Mother or Jarrod give you a hand."

Audra scowled at him, her jaw set. "Nick Barkley, you -"

"Audra does not need any supervision, Nick," Victoria pronounced.

"OK, OK," he surrendered, putting up his hands. "Just trying to help."

Heath and Jarrod both concealed smiles. Jarrod busied himself with his briefcase, while Heath suddenly had to fix a button on his shirt. Audra looked around the room, huffed at her brothers, and swept out the door. Nick chuckled to himself.

"I take it she's not so good with food," Mike commented aside to Heath.

"It ain't for lack of tryin'."

"Heath, here's the book you were reading right before you and Nick left home." Victoria began to unpack a small bundle of books and letters from her satchel.

He accepted it, leaning back against the window sill. "Thoreau. Boy howdy, that seems like a lifetime ago," he said, as he flipped through the pages. Smith crossed the room to look over his shoulder, leaning against the wall next to Heath.

"I remember reading that, maybe ten years ago," he said.

"Funny how it just pulled me in -" Heath started to say, then stopped, suddenly intently focused on a passage in the book.

"What is it?" Jarrod asked, curious.

"I think I just realized why I felt I had read this book before." He scanned the page, reading the words, caught up in a disorienting feeling of duality. He could hear her voice, reading those words to him, as his eyes moved over the page. He felt briefly dizzy, and he closed his eyes, taking a breath to steady himself.

"Heath? Are you OK?" That was Smith, his hand now on his arm, making sure he wasn't about to fall over.

"Yeah," Heath nodded, opening his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm OK."

 _It costs me less in every sense to incur the penalty of disobedience to the State than it would to obey_...

 _Thus the State never intentionally confronts a man's sense, intellectual or moral, but only his body, his senses. It is not armed with superior wit or honesty, but with superior physical strength. I was not born to be forced. I will breathe after my own fashion. Let us see who is the strongest._

Heath sighed, feeling the weight of the position in which he found himself. He was not, as Thoreau, pondering questions of how to oppose unjust laws. He was faced with a choice, however. The State, right or wrong, was going to pass judgment on him for his actions, and he could decide how he would carry himself into that conversation. One truth of which he was certain: he could think of no price, no punishment, that would be worse than not having saved his brothers. He would rather spend eternity in a rock pile with Donovan than see his brothers murdered by mercenary gunmen.

 _A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance._

He had made that decision, in that moment, not to leave his brothers' lives to the mercy of chance. _He_ made that choice. He could not stand before a judge and claim otherwise.

Heath stood brooding over the book in his hands, his thoughts spinning in the competing currents of old memories and approaching rapids. Smith and Mike shared a look over his bowed head.

"Heath. Time to take a break, pal. Lunch. It's not polite to abandon your guests to face your sister's cooking alone." He reached out to rub Heath's head as he used to, but instead he ran his hand gently over the short blonde hair. "You had a _heck_ of a lot more hair last time I saw you. You were starting to look more like Audra, actually, back then, but not as clean, of course. And you never smelled as good as Audra does."

Heath ducked out from under Mike's big hand and grinned at him. "And you never could learn to keep your hands to yourself."

"Now that would be a sight I'd like to see. Long hair." Nick leaned back in his chair, looking at Heath, trying to imagine.

"That was nothin'. You shoulda seen me after I'd been up trapping in the Absarokas for a year." Despite his light tone, Smith noticed, Heath was starting to look shaky, and was groping for a handhold on the sill to steady himself.

Smith put his arm gently around his shoulder. "You oughta sit down for a bit. Have some lunch and take a look at some of those letters your mother brought."

Heath glanced up at Smith gratefully and nodded. "Good idea."

He let the older man support and balance him as they walked slowly out to the verandah. Every transition from one position or location to another seemed to involve working past a great deal of painful stiffness that would then reaccumulate at his next roost. If he wouldn't be overcome by fatigue and constantly under the threat of collapse, Heath would've been inclined, once in motion, to just keep moving. As it was, he kept moving as far as he could, and was grateful for the many shoulders there to help him.

Settled outside, he showed Mike the book he had been reading. "Rivka read this to me. I was out for days and days, delirious, after Canby arrived. She would sit and read to me. I can hear her voice as I look at the words. She got Canby to let her take books from his collection, do you believe it?"

"Of her, I'd believe it, yes," Mike laughed. "Your mother told me she is studying to be a doctor, in Pennsylvania?"

Victoria looked up from the place settings she was arranging on the outdoor table. "Heath, one of those letters there is from Rivka, and one is from Hadassah."

Heath hesitated. A letter from both of them. It might not signify anything - he'd been gone for months now, they could have been sent weeks apart. Still, he found himself suddenly, surprisingly afraid. Afraid that a chance for which he had been waiting all these years had arrived, and would now be lost to him, beyond his reach, part of the price he would pay for the path he had chosen.


	79. chapter 79

_Carterson, New Mexico, March, 1865_

Heath stood by the open gate of the hacienda that had been his prison for almost 8 months of his young life. He was healing, physically, not nearly back to where he should've been, but he could feel himself getting stronger. A breeze circled him, cooling the sweat on his forehead. He looked out at the trail that would lead him north, and settled a battered old vaquero hat on his head.

It was time to ride out. Still, he stood, unable yet to move, feeling near staked to the ground by the pain in his heart. He heard a quiet step behind him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He knew it was Rivka, and he knew that the thin shell of stoicism he had managed to construct would not hold up long under her perceptive, loving gaze.

"Heath?" She sounded so sad, he knew he was done for. "I'm going to miss you so much... do you promise to go to my Aunt Miriam? For just a while? So at least if you go, before we get there, at least we can know where you went? I can't bear thinking I'll never find you again -"

He turned and took her in his arms and hugged her tightly to him. "I promise. I promise, for you, I won't disappear." By a huge effort he was able to keep himself from tears. "Thank you father again for letting me use his horse. And the food. Not sure how I'd even get started otherwise." He laughed mirthlessly. "Army tells me to git, but they leave me nothin' to git with."

Rivka's melancholy gave way in an instant to barely contained fury. "Evil bureaucrats!" she spat. "Cruel, stupid, heartless, evil -"

Awed as always by the power that could come crackling out of her in any instant, Heath found himself wondering, not for the first time, what she would be like as a woman. What it would be like to have her love. He imagined it would be as exciting as a thunderstorm, as life-giving as the rain and the sun that follow.

As he pulled her close again, he scolded himself for his romantic imaginings and reminded himself that it was time to go. He had been told to clear out promptly, or the judge advocate officer might change his mind about the court martial.

He was in no position right now to think of himself in Rivka's future, or anyone else's. She had her family around her, and a home, and a life to get started on. He was, at the moment, less than destitute. Rabbi Levi had generously given him (loaned, Heath insisted) the horse he had ridden from from Albuquerque, as he would be traveling back north by carriage with his happily reunited family. Hadassah and Rivka had gathered food and some other essentials for him - matches, a hat, boots, a small knife, some twine and a fishing hook, a blanket, a pot to boil water. The twins had taken up this game for the past day, and were scavenging around the camp like a pair of magpies, bringing him a wide array of found objects. A few turned out to be truly useful: a lens that could be used to start a fire, and a good whetstone.

Worn and tattered as it was, he was told to turn in his uniform. In the end, they had only taken the coat. Sam had come to him with a good sturdy coat, shirt, and pants - to whom they originally belonged, Sam would not say. He placed his hands on either side of Heath's face and kissed the top of his head, as if blessing him. "Go with God, boy. I wish I could ride with you and keep you safe on your journey home."

"You get home safe too, Sam. Get home safe."

Hadassah and Solomon urged him to stay for a spell with the rabbi's sister and her husband near Ft. Union, to recover a bit more before trekking back up to Strawberry. He initially resisted, refusing to impose.

"Heath, _boychick_ , this is no imposition. They need some help. Miriam and Chaim have 11 children, and another on the way. Chaim broke his arm and his ankle in an accident. They desperately need someone to help around the farm until he is healed up, and you need someone to feed you so you don't look like a scarecrow when you get back to your poor mother. Understood? Though believe me, aside from the farm work, you'll also learn quick how to feed and diaper the little ones. You never know when those skills will come in handy."

So his plan for the moment, with his borrowed horse and scavenged equipment, was to head north to help out at the Baum homestead. The time alone would give him a chance to box up some of the pain and fear and sadness, and start to sort out who he was, now that he wasn't a soldier or a prisoner anymore. A quarter of his life had just been unceremoniously amputated. Barely 16, he was going to have to work that through on his own, as best he could.

He felt Rivka wrap her arms around his waist and lay her head against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and allowed his hand to run through her dark hair. "I'd better get going. I will miss you." He squeezed her tightly once more, then turned and vaulted onto the horse, wheeling the animal around and riding out at a gallop before he could change his mind.


	80. chapter 80

_This is an epilogue of sorts thrown in before the end of the story, because there's a loose end flapping around and bothering me. It's my picture of another way I think this could have gone._

 _Barkley Ranch, September,_ _1873_

It was a beautiful early fall day in the valley. The rains had been good. Heath stepped out of the smithy and paused for a moment to take in the rich smell of fertile soil and good horses, the warm sunshine, and the still-new feeling of wonder as he looked toward the big ranch house with its climbing vines. He hefted the two rifles he held in his hands, pleased with the results his work.

He had found the rifles wrapped in a dusty canvas stiff with age, the bundle propped in the back of a little-used tool closet in the barn. Unwrapping them, he estimated they were about 30 years old, well-made, but rusted and gummed up with dust and old lubricant. He hesitated at first to ask about them, still feeling so new in the household and worried that he might overstep some family boundary. At that moment, though, it happened that Victoria entered the barn, preparing to go for a ride. Heath jumped to tack up her horse. As he curried and saddled the gelding, he decided to ask her about the pair of rifles.

She walked over to look at the unwrapped canvas, and Heath heard her catch her breath. His heart sank as he saw her tear up and put a hand to her mouth. He started at once to apologize.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I came across them while I was cleaning out that -"

She turned to him, and he looked down, twisting her horse's rein in his hands, expecting at the very least to hear her annoyance that he had been snooping around where he didn't belong. She put a hand on his arm. "Heath," she said.

He looked up. She still had tears in her eyes, but she was smiling at him. He felt as if a weight was lifted from his chest. He took a deep breath, watching her.

"There is nothing to apologize for. I just haven't seen these for so long. This was the pair of rifles Tom and I brought with us when we first rolled into the valley in a single wagon. The memories -" She left the sentence hanging as she looked at his face, Tom's face. It was a sweet heartache each day to see this newest son of hers as he moved through the life of the family.

Heath could easily imagine the feelings those two guns could represent. Food, safety, survival; partners relying on each other in a shared adventure. He nodded. "I understand."

"I think you do," she said, and she reached up to push a lock of hair from his forehead. She smiled into his eyes. "Thank you for getting my horse ready, Heath. Don't be late for lunch."

"No, ma'am, I won't," he said, as he helped her up into the saddle.

Now, a week or so later, he had finished restoring the two rifles, a project he had undertaken in the early mornings before anyone was up and around. Not a speck of rust could be seen, and the metal and wood components nearly glowed in the morning sun. He thought he might mount them as a gift to Mrs. Barkley - _to Mother_ , he corrected himself.

Right now, though, he had to get back to the house. Jarrod had told him there was a foreman from one of the logging camps coming to discuss a plan to expand the operation. He walked into the foyer, asking one of the hands to store the two rifles carefully in the gun cabinet. Then he turned toward the men's voices he heard coming from the living room.

"Heath, c'mon in here," Jarrod called. "I want you to meet someone. This is M -"

"Matt Bentell." Heath interrupted, his voice low, controlled, definite. He made no move toward the offered handshake, but stopped, relaxed, tipping his head slightly as he looked at the older man. He was still tall, but stooped a bit now, while Heath had grown a few inches since age 15, putting them more or less on eye level. He could see Bentell anxiously searching his memory to place the apparently prosperous cowboy standing in front of him. "Boy howdy. I wondered from time to time where you snuck off to. And now here you are. Working for _me_. Under an alias, I assume?" He looked at Jarrod, prompting him out of his stunned silence.

"Uh - Todman, Matt Todman. He's been employed by us under that name for about 6 months."

Victoria, Audra, and Mrs. Bentell appeared in the doorway, listening.

The atmosphere in the room was electric. Heath had never in the family's memory taken such a proprietary tone with anything to do with the ranch. He tended to watch and listen, and he always spoke of ranch business in terms of 'we', 'us', 'the family'. Confronted with this sudden intrusion from the past, however, he radiated such an intensity of focus and intent that his brothers were immediately drawn in to his trajectory, flanking him as he took the lead.

"So, Bentell," Heath glanced around the room. "Where's your puppies?"

Bentell's eyes widened, a hint of fear rising now behind the anger and frustration.

"Thomson...?"

"Heath Thomson, Union terrorist, 5th US Infantry Ft. Craig, present and accounted for."

Nick growled and slapped his gloves against his hand. "Imagine that. Matt Bentell, working for us. Well, soon's we pay you off, you won't be."

"Well now, hold on there, Nick, war's been over for years. Maybe there's another way." Heath hadn't moved from where he stood, thumbs in his gun belt, carefully studying the middle aged man before him. "You say production's been up at that site since he took over, and he has some good proposals for expansion?"

"Yeah..um, yes, that's correct." Nick sounded a bit like a guilty schoolboy who wasn't sure of his answers.

"Can you tell me how he's increased production, or how he plans to deploy our men for the expansion?"

Nick and Jarrod both shook their heads in the negative.

"Jarrod, would you agree that our family is particular about who they bring on as foremen, and just as particular about how those foremen treat our employees under their supervision?"

Jarrod answered, "Yes, absolutely."

Heath continued, keeping his eyes on Bentell, "The reason I ask, is that I have observed Mr. Bentell's leadership style, which in my experience might be productive in the short-term, but would be toxic in the long run."

Jarrod picked up the thread. "This family looks to the long term. We value and protect the people who work with us, and we don't put profit over their well-being."

Heath stepped closer to the foreman, speaking quietly but clearly. "Bentell, you may have put Carterson behind you, along with starving and beating men to death. And I know you were tried and found not guilty of war crimes, though I think maybe the tribunal had finally had their fill of revenge once they hanged Wirz, and just decided to let you disappear. That's not my affair. This ranch _is_ my affair, however, and I'd be willing to bet your basic management style hasn't changed. That just seems part of your personality. I'm not convinced that style is compatible with our family's. I'm willing to give you a chance, however - that is, if my family agrees."

He looked around the room. They all looked back at him, each one nodding assent to his proposal.

"We don't have any young boys working up there, do we?" he asked Nick.

"No, none."

Heath narrowed his eyes, nodding. "That would be one firm condition. He's not to be trusted around children." Victoria and Audra frowned, looking at Heath intently.

Heath nodded again, seeming to reach a decision. "Here's what I think. I'll ride up there with you, Bentell, keep an eye on things, see how well you can work with our crew. I'll be able to tell what you're up to, or whether you can learn something new."

Bentell seemed frozen, looking back and forth between Heath and the family that a moment before had been so welcoming. Finally he spoke. "You must hate me, Thomson."

"It's _Mr. Barkley_ , to you, Bentell. And no, I don't hate you. I just don't **_trust_** you. But like I said, I'm willing to give you a chance. I'll be able see who you are."

Victoria stepped back into her role of matriarch and hostess. "Mr. and Mrs. Bentell, I'm sure you'd like some time to discuss this privately. Why don't you step into the library and I'll ask Silas to bring you some coffee. Take your time." She shepherded the stunned couple out, then returned to the living room.

Heath still stood in the middle of the room, thumbs in his belt, looking at the rug. She saw him take a deep breath, and bring a hand up to wipe perspiration from his upper lip. His hand, she could see, was shaking slightly. He raised his head and met her eyes, gave a slight smile. Then he paled, swallowed, and quickly left the room, exiting outside onto the veranda and around to the back of the house.

When the family caught up with him, he was sitting by the kitchen entrance with his elbows on his knees, head hanging. Silas was rubbing his back lightly, murmuring to him, handing him a damp cloth to wipe his face and mouth. "Thanks, Silas," he husked. "I'm glad I made it to the refuse pile before I threw up that terrific breakfast you cooked."

Nick was fuming. "Heath, let's just get rid of the guy and be done with it." Jarrod, Victoria, and Audra each echoed the sentiment.

Heath looked up at each of them, and then at Silas. "I meant what I said in there," he said, looking at the elderly man. "I'm willing. And I'll be able to tell. You know what I mean?" Silas nodded. "He can't hurt me. Just took me by surprise, is all. Hate to waste a good meal." He looked at the rest of the family. "I think it's important that we know who and what he is now, not just send him off to sign on somewhere else, under another name. Who knows, maybe it'll work out. Maybe the old dog can learn some new tricks from us." He laughed to himself, shaking his head. "Just wait till I write Rivka about this. Hoo boy, she's gonna be _steamin_ '. Too bad I can't send her up to the lumber camp."


	81. chapter 81

_Carson City, August, 1874_

Nick pulled the surrey to a halt in front of the hospital, hopping out to help his mother down from her seat. Over the weeks since Smith had gotten Heath out of the prison, Victoria had come every morning to the hospital, arriving just after dawn. She was usually accompanied by Nick, who was a much earlier riser than either Jarrod or Audra. Still, the only times they'd ever found Heath still asleep on their arrival was when he had been heavily medicated by the physician on duty, after a particularly painful procedure. Nick remembered how uneasy that sight had made him: the rising sun coming through Heath's window, and his brother unmoving, pale, a sheen of sweat over his bruised skin.

 _He should be home. He'd have been out already checking on the summer foals and maybe working with one of the new saddle horses. He'd be just coming in for breakfast. He should be home._

This morning they found him awake, sitting at a low table by the window, staring out at the eastern horizon. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn the day before. The low angle of the sunlight shone on his face, highlighting his cropped blonde hair and the stubble of beard that had grown overnight. He looked drawn and tired. To Victoria's eye, he was not gaining weight or recovering his strength as fast as she would like, though the doctors advised patience, and had reassured her that the healing and fighting off of infection took up a lot of the body's energy. She understood that it wasn't simply a matter of malnutrition, but she could also see that her son was laboring under more than just bodily injury.

Victoria noted the open letters that lay on the neat, tidy, not-slept-in hospital bed. Blank sheets of writing paper and a pen lay by a cup of cold coffee and an uneaten breakfast on the table by the window. Heath sat, seemingly lost in thought, unaware of their presence until Nick spoke.

"Heath. What are you doing? Have you been up all night?"

Victoria smiled slightly. _Leave it to big brother to greet the invalid with a verbal slap in the head._

Heath startled slightly, then recovered himself. "Good morning to you too, Nick. Good morning, Mother." Out of habit and good manners, he turned to stand up as she came in, but pain from the sudden movement hit hard about halfway up, and he had to grab at the back of the chair to steady himself and get the rest of the way upright.

She walked over to him, then waited until he was able to breathe again and could meet her eyes. "Good morning, Heath," she said warmly, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugged. "Well as can be expected, I guess." His effort to sound lively and upbeat quickly faded, however, as his eye roamed over the letters on the bed, the walls of the hospital room, and the stony Nevada landscape outside. Now that he was standing, he was loath to sit down again. He was intermittently struggling not to feel penned in and panicky. A cane was hanging on the back of the chair, which the doctor had instructed him to use. Taking it up, Heath began to pace from one window to the next.

"I see you finally read your mail." Heath nodded, his back to the room, looking out the window. "You've been expecting to hear soon that she's coming back to California." No response. "Well? What did she say? Is she coming back?"

He nodded and turned toward her finally, but still he wasn't looking at her. "Yes. In a few weeks." He looked terribly sad. More than that, though, he seemed profoundly _still_ , preoccupied, as though he was bracing himself for some inescapable torment. It occurred to her that this son had far too much experience in exactly this, finding ways to survive hell with his heart and mind intact. It also occurred to her that this time the torment could very likely be self-inflicted, and she would not stand for that.

"Oh no, Heath. No. Don't you do that. Don't you _dare_."

Heath and Nick both looked up, Nick surprised, Heath suddenly looking like a misbehaving seven-year-old caught full in the sights of his wrathful mother. Nick knew very well what it felt like to be in Victoria's sights. He had no clue what kind of maternal mind-reading she was doing to Heath right now, he was just glad it wasn't him.

Victoria nodded to herself and turned to Nick. "Nick, I think I need to speak to Heath alone."

Heath opened his mouth to protest. Before he could get a word out, Nick chuckled and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. "Good luck, boy." Still smiling, he headed out the door.

Heath watched him go, then reluctantly turned back to Victoria. "Mother, I –"

She held up her hand. "First just tell me what the letters said."

"Rivka graduated in June. Graduated from medical school."

"That's wonderful. I remember you sent her a gift, that beautiful set of instruments you found in San Francisco. They were in such a lovely leather case. What were they called? Did she receive it?"

"An ophthalmoscope and an otoscope, for looking into eyes and ears. Yes, she wrote that they arrived a few days before graduation. She said she loves them and they fit perfectly in her doctor's valise."

"What other news?"

He took a deep breath. He didn't need to look at the letters themselves. He had been reading and rereading them all night long, he could probably recite them by heart. "She's been offered a position in a new hospital in San Francisco. A women's hospital, founded by three women physicians from the east coast. Rivka will be able to do her clinical training there. She wants to do additional training in surgery, and this would give her that opportunity. Most hospitals won't allow women in for training or practice."

"This sounds like a huge honor. It's a historic opportunity."

"It truly is. She's worked so hard for this. She wrote that she plans to meet her family in San Francisco, they want to come up to visit." He began to look distressed. "She sent that two months ago. Then she wrote to me again in July, said she was worried about me because I hadn't answered her letter, or the one from her mother. She knew Nick and I were out on the trail, but – I would have written -" He shook his head and continued. "Hadassah wrote that they planned to come up to San Francisco to celebrate Rivka's graduation, and also the twins turning thirteen. She told me thirteen is an important milestone, it's when they have to show the congregation what they've learned of the Torah, and they take on the moral responsibilities of an adult. The family wants to visit us in September. Rabbi Levi has to be back to his congregation by the end of September for their high holy days. I feel terrible that I haven't responded –"

"Heath, we can send them a wire, let them know why you haven't been able to write. But that's not all that's bothering you."

He looked bleakly at the blank writing paper on the table. "I don't know what to say."

"You could start with the truth. That's what you usually do," she said gently.

"They have so much to celebrate. I don't want to burden them with all this. If I tell Hadassah what's happened, where I've been, she'll worry. She'll want to do something to help, when she should be focusing on her family."

"That's the problem with having people in your life who love you, Heath. They're going to care about you, worry about you, try to help you. You can't ask them not to."

"I haven't seen them in four years. Some of it's just pride, I guess. I've been a stray dog for most of the years they've known me, well, most of my life, really. They'd bring me in every time I'd show up on their porch. They shared their food and love and family with me. I wanted to be able to share some of that back, not be _stuck_ like I am, stuck here – here, in –"

 _Here in the past._

 _Here in the past_. Those words were screaming in his head, making him feel like he was being dragged backwards into a black tunnel. He looked at her, confused, desperate. "Mother, I just - I feel trapped. I get feeling like I never left Carterson, like I'm - I'm still -"

Suddenly Heath felt like he couldn't get enough air. There was a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with broken ribs. His heart was hammering in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the room from spinning. Leaning on the wall with one hand, he turned, gasping, intending to start pacing again. Maybe if he got moving some of this god-awful feeling would let go of him.

"Heath. Heath, look at me."

He couldn't, he just wanted to move, get away. He tried to push past her, but tiny as she was, she was like a rock. She faced him, holding both his arms. "Heath. Stay with me. Just breathe."

He felt like he was drowning. He took an unsteady step back, trying to get away in another direction, but then stumbled over a chair leg and fell to his knees, gasping.

"Nick, come help!" Victoria called. She was worried that Heath might keep fighting her and injure himself. He was too strong for her to contain even in this weakened state. But he stayed where he was, one hand planted on the floor, chest heaving as he tried to slow his breathing and let the panic pass. Victoria knelt by him, her arm around his shoulders. Nick came flying back in the door, but then stopped at her upheld hand.

Heath slowly sat back on his heels, eyes distant. "I can't," he said hoarsely. "I can't see her again, not now, not like this. The judge wants me locked up again till my case is decided, soon as I don't need to be in a hospital – could be today for all I know. What he'll decide after that – it could be years till I'm out. Rivka has everything ahead of her. I wanted –" He took a ragged breath. "What I want don't matter. She's come so far. She deserves it all. I – I'm just –" He stopped, drained, unwilling to speak the words that came to mind. _I'm just trapped here. I feel like I'd drag her back there with me. I'm the last thing she needs._

"Heath, do you remember you told me about the first time Rivka was angry at you, really angry, before you left Carterson?"

He nodded.

"Do you remember why she was angry?"

"Because I went back into the prison so they could get away."

"As I remember, Heath, she was scared and upset that you had gone back into the prison, yes, but that wasn't the reason she was _angry_ with you."

He was silent for a long moment. "No, it wasn't. She was angry with me because I made that choice without her."

"I would say, Heath, that regardless of what you decide, one thing seems sure. If you leave Rivka out of the decision, she's going to be really mad at you. So, based on what I know about this young doctor, I think your safest course is to let her know what's going on."

Heath nodded, turned his head to look at her for a moment, gave her a sad smile. "You're right, as usual." He looked back down at his hands. "I'll tell her where I am and what's happened. But there's something else. I had planned – I wanted to ask Rivka – ask her parents – if she would be my wife. Not to be married right now, I mean, because of the hospital and all, but when she's ready. I wanted to ask, so she would know." He paused for a moment, wanting to be clear about what he was thinking. "But now, being here, I think I'll have to put that by. Maybe just for now, maybe for good, I don't know. I feel I have no right to ask that of her parents when I'm not free to offer my - to offer anything, really. Right now I belong to the State of Nevada."

Victoria came around to kneel in front of him, so she could look in his face. "Don't close any doors in your heart, Heath. This situation will pass. And don't underestimate Rivka. If she's as smart as you say she is, she knows what a treasure you are." He smiled as she kissed his forehead.

"Victoria? Heath? Are you alright? Do you need any help?"

"No, John, I think we're alright." She smiled up at the marshal who had appeared in the doorway. "Though Heath might need an arm to get back up on his feet."

"No, 'm alright, I think," Heath said, winking at Nick as he used the chair back to get himself upright. "Help Mother." Smith hurried over to help Victoria up from the floor. Neither Heath nor Nick missed his eagerness to reach her side.

Heath winced as he straightened out his right leg. The eschar of the burn was giving him trouble. As it healed, the scar overlying his knee had contracted and restricted the movement of his knee. He had been working on regaining a normal range of motion, but as he did, the eschar would reopen, and the process would start over again. He was making progress, but it was slow, and painful.

Heath sat down in the chair with a sigh of relief, rubbing his right leg, which felt like it might be bleeding again. He saw Jarrod and Audra appear in the doorway. Jarrod must have decided he and Audra should be here when Smith arrived. _I'm guessing that means bad news_ , Heath thought. He looked up at Smith. Heath wanted him to know he held no hard feelings against him for doing his job.

"I appreciate you coming yourself, Marshal. I know you could've sent a few deputies instead."

Smith looked gravely at Heath. "No, I wouldn't do that."

Nick was immediately alarmed, looking from the marshal to his brother. "Heath, what are you talking about? What do you mean, deputies?"

Heath nodded, took a breath, tried to let it out slowly. He rubbed his damp palms down the front of his pants. "What's the order say? You takin' me in today?"

"Effective immediately."

" _No_ -" Nick and Audra protested simultaneously. Victoria took in the pained expression in Smith's eyes, and the concern with which he looked at Heath. She thought she was learning why Heath trusted him as he did. But now she turned to Jarrod, awaiting his legal prognosis.

"Bentley is going to convene a federal grand jury. Initial hearing date is in three weeks. It's going to take that long to gather the jury panel members," Jarrod said, his worried eyes also on Heath.

"Three weeks?" Victoria looked back and forth between Jarrod and Smith. "How long do you expect this whole process will take?"

Smith answered her. "Hard to predict. They have been known to drag on for months. Best case scenario is the charges are dismissed at the first hearing, and we're done. The good news is, the case against Risley is coming together well, and that can only help. Roberts did some good work down there in Wellington. McGowan and Harris have both rolled over on Risley to get their sentences reduced, and we might have a line on where that doctor disappeared to."

"That's all well and good," Audra interjected, "but it's worth nothing if Heath isn't safe. How can you consider putting him back in there?"

Smith turned to face her. "I share your worry, Audra, believe me. Donovan is gone, and several guards who were with him, but that alone is no guarantee. I've taken some additional steps to ensure his safety, with the warden's cooperation. A few of my men will be stationed inside the prison."

"I'm grateful to you, Marshal. Don't think I'd make it through another round like the last one."

Heath glanced at Audra, realizing from her pained expression that his comment had done nothing to ease her fear. He tried again. "Well, the one meal I had in that jail wasn't half bad. Maybe you could pick up some pointers, sis," Heath said innocently.

Audra whirled on him, putting a hand on either arm of his chair and leaning in nose-to-nose. He put his hands up. "You think you can distract me," she warned him. " _Fine_. Make fun of my cooking. But if you and that marshal there don't do a better job keeping you in one piece, I'll - I'll just pummel you myself."

Her complete lack of logic in the moment made perfect sense to everyone in the room. Heath was pressed back into his chair as she leaned in closer, eyes narrow. "Oh, if you weren't a cripple already you'd be in big trouble," she whispered.

Heath reckoned this challenge needed some response. "You think so, do you," he said ominously, shifting forward as if to rise. "You're sure about that." Two pairs of blue eyes locked on each other like a pair of alley cats circling for a fight.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she shot back, a wicked smile now on her face.

"OK, OK, children, that's quite enough," Nick intervened. After a beat, Audra took a step back, hands on hips, and broke her stare to glare at Smith again for good measure. Smith nodded. He got the message.

"Saving me again, big brother," Heath commented, glancing gratefully up at him. He ran a hand over his face. "I was going to say I need to wash up and get a shave, but those fine guards over there took care of all that for me last time. Maybe I shouldn't bother."

"Tell you what, Heath," Smith said. "You get washed and shaved here, and I'll see what I can do to have them skip the buckets of cold water this time."


	82. chapter 82

_Nevada, August, 1874_

Rivka gazed out her window. A newspaper was held loosely in her hands, several more in her bag on the seat beside her. She barely noticed the the dry, rocky landscape passing by, or the mountains in the distance. She was deeply worried. The train seemed to her to travel at a snail's pace. Unable to take any sort of concrete action, she tried to relax and let her mind wander in memories.

 _Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1870_

Rivka finished helping her mother put away the dinner dishes, then peeked in the study to make sure the twins were busy with their father on their schoolwork. She heard a steady hammering outside that made her smile.

She slipped outside and ran toward the sound. A spectacular sunset spread across the western sky. She found Heath on the far side of the barn, replacing the siding on section that had been damaged by a storm.

She paused, wanting to take this moment for herself to just see him, take in ever detail, knowing it could be years before they met again. She loved to watch him work. She could remember seeing him for the first time a few months after Carterson, at the Baum's farm, hauling sacks of feed, mucking stalls, jumping bareback onto one of the plow horses to round up a bunch of the dairy cows that had broken through a fence. He was already noticeably taller and more muscular. The Baums were certain the seemingly tireless teenager had saved their farm from disaster. They joked Heath could wrangle children as skillfully as the livestock, as Miriam described him scooping up one of the toddlers from horseback, changing his diaper, and delivering him to his mother on the porch without missing a beat.

Now, five years later, working in the dusty glow of the sunset, he seemed more at peace, focused, with an economy of movement that elevated the simple task to something meditative and graceful. She realized that was at the heart of how she felt being with him.

She waited until he was done, and had stepped back to wipe his brow and look over his work.

"Heath."

He smiled at her. "Hey."

She ran into his arms, taking him by surprise. "What - " he laughed, stumbling back against the barn.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. I won't get to be alone with you. So you have to do this now."

"Do what?" The look on her face as she pressed up against him made him feel full of butterflies. He flushed, swallowed.

"Kiss me. You have to kiss me before I go."

 _Oh, I'm done for now_ , he thought. _There's nothing I wouldn't do for her. She could knock me over with her little finger_. He smiled down at her, studying her face for a long moment. "Rivka, darlin', you want me to miss you even more than I already do..? Are you sure?" The longing in his eyes warmed her, as his expression grew serious and he stroked her dark hair away from her face. "You are so beautiful," he said, so quietly it was barely a whisper.

She brought her lips to his. "I'm sure."

He pulled her in close against him and kissed her deeply, reverently, passionately. She lost herself in kissing him, feeling as though the two of them had been set aflame by the setting sun.

 _Nevada, August, 1874_

The train whistle pulled Rivka from her reverie, and she looked to gather herself to continue her journey. "Reno, Nevada!" the conductor called, "Reno Station!" He stopped to speak to the young woman traveling alone. "Here's where you change trains for Carson City, miss."


	83. chapter 83

_Carson City, August, 1874_

The editorial headline seemed to shout from the page.

 ** _Dramatic Developments in the Leviathan Murder Case_**

 _Finally responding to public outcry, the federal court has remanded Heath Barkley, self-admitted assassin of five law enforcement officers, back to confinement in the State Prison._

With eager venom, thinly disguised as civic concern, the article continued a now-common narrative. The ill-begotten murderer had been returned to prison after recovering from a beating he most certainly deserved. The community could rest a bit more easily, now that the felon had been placed back behind bars pending his trial. Certainly he remains a threat to the citizenry, the editor opined.

 _It is well known that such low breeding and immoral upbringing will invariably lead to violence and criminal activity. Add to this Barkley's evident mental instability and military expertise, and it is clear he must be incarcerated away from decent society._

 _In a parallel case, Captain Adam Risley, long-established Warden of Wellington Prison and former Assistant Executive Officer at NSP, has been also incarcerated in this same institution, indicted under a laundry list of felony charges. The validity of these charges remain to be established. The scope and sheer number of indictments entered by Attorney General Luther A. Buckner against Mr. Risley has been interpreted by some as reflecting the prosecutor's lack of confidence in a conviction, given his past failures in that regard. One year ago, Mr. Buckner attempted unsuccessfully to prosecute Mr. Risley on the basis of information the AG received as chairman of the Nevada Board of State Prison Commissioners, but he was unable to locate witnesses willing to corroborate accusations of corruption and unlawful arrests. For this current case, the AG has relocated former prison guard Thomas Peterson, his primary witness, to an undisclosed location until he is needed to testify. Mr. Peterson is currently serving a 5 year sentence as part of a plea bargain to assist the prosecution, with possibility of parole in 18 months._

 _Other sources have speculated that this aggressive, "shotgun" approach to the case against Mr. Risley is a result of pressure from the wealthy Barkley family. These sources suggest the family wishes to impose their considerable influence upon our community, and divert public attention from the bastard who has brought their name such ill repute._

Victoria sat upright at a table in the lobby of the hotel, her tea growing cold, her breakfast untouched. She forced herself to read on, in an attempt to see and know the threat to her family. She knew the words would leave her feeling enraged, distracted, and restless. All of those feelings, she was well aware, came from a common source. She was afraid.

She was deeply afraid for Heath, not only for his physical safety and his emotional condition, but for his chances of a fair trial if - not _if_ , she scolded herself – _when_ he made it to that point. She was afraid that the poisonous seeds sown by these articles were flourishing in the fertile soil of the prison where her son was trapped, and in the community in which the trial would be held. She knew it would be naive to think the hostile sentiment would have no influence on the attitudes of those servants of the law who would sit on the grand jury panel.

Nick had left this morning with Audra to return to Stockton. She was glad they were not here to see this latest round of calumny to be flung at their brother. Frowning at the newspaper, lost in worry, she did not see Jarrod until he arrived to sit across from her.

"Good morning, lovely lady," he said gently. He placed a hand over the newspaper. "Mother, please, don't let this poison trouble you. It is a small, but unfortunately loud, minority."

Much as she had steeled herself before reading the article, Victoria still had tears in her eyes when she looked up at her son. "Oh Jarrod - it's so - so _cruel_. I could ignore it if it were just that, just words. But this could truly hurt him. They could attack him again in prison, or the grand jury panel could decide he's an irremediable threat and lock him up for years, or God forbid decide to hang him -" She held back a sob.

"Mother, no, no, that's not going to happen. The AG is primarily focused on his case against Risley. He wants something on Heath, I'm certain, but I honestly don't think he's seeking a harsh sentence."

Jarrod fervently hoped he was correct in that assessment. Two things he knew Buckner was passionate to prosecute: corruption and vigilantism. Jarrod prayed Buckner would get his fill with Risely's conviction, and perhaps approach Heath with less of an appetite for condemnation.

"Unless public opinion begins to have influence on him. It seems he already got the judge to agree to send Heath back into that prison, because of 'public opinion'."

"We don't know that. That's the editor talking, and he clearly is not one to base his commentary on known facts."

"How is Heath? You did get to see him, didn't you? Is he alright?"

"I did, and he is," Jarrod said, trying to keep his tone neutral. He was not surprised when his mother saw right through him.

"Jarrod. Tell me."

He met her eyes. "First of all, he's got a few new bumps and bruises, which he insists to me are nothing serious, and just the result of fending off some routine prison yard posturing." He looked unconvinced himself. "He told me to make sure to tell you he's eating well, and to thank you for the books you sent. Marshal Smith has checked in with Hyman a few times, and Heath says as far as he can tell, there's been a deputy marshal on duty in his vicinity around the clock.

"The doctor doesn't want him working in the quarry – _yet_ – but assignment to the other work site, the shoe factory, is a perk they only hand out to inmates based on special skills, training, and good behavior. So Heath has been doing general custodial work wherever the shift captain decides to send him. Says that's going OK. You know Heath, he'd prefer to be working and doing something, even if it's just mopping or hauling water. To me, Heath doesn't look great. He looks like he's hurting, but he promises me he's being careful not to overdo and injure himself. At least he's not moving boulders."

Jarrod paused, frowned. "When I pressed him, he did admit he was worried about some of the officers of the guard. The younger staff, he thinks, are mostly neutral, just doing their jobs. But the officers are deferential with Risley. For whatever reason, Risley continues to have influence, even direction over some of them. I don't yet understand _why_ the officers would defer to Risley, but it worries Heath, and it certainly worries me. Risley has leverage among the inmates because of it. He can offer protection, perks – or threaten retribution."

A memory intruded into Jarrod's thoughts, accompanied by a dull twisting of fear in his gut. It was an image of Risley, handcuffed to a tree in Leviathan Canyon, oblivious to the bullet hole in his shoulder, oblivious to Jarrod, his malevolent stare directed solely at Heath. "He wouldn't even have to attack Heath directly. Risley could create a threat from almost any quarter."

"Does John know about this?" Victoria was following Jarrod's report intently, her effort to control her emotional reaction making her voice low and rough.

"Yes, absolutely. Ramos and Roberts have made similar observations and have reported this to Smith – and to the AG, as it may have some bearing on his case. Why haven't the officers written Risley off as finished, a lame duck? What cards does he hold that we don't see?"

The two sat looking at each other for a moment, wordlessly sharing their worry. Jarrod then broke the silence with his next concern. "Heath wants to plead _nolo contendere,_ " he said reluctantly. "He wants me to enter a plea of no contest."

"No contest? Jarrod, what would that mean, exactly? Why would he want that? And do you think that's what he should do?"

He held his hand up to slow the questions. "I'll try to explain the implications. As to why - "

"Jarrod, he must not sacrifice himself just to spare the family some bad publicity," she stated, leaning in with her palms on the table top. "I will not have that."

"Understand, Mother, it's his choice, not yours, or mine. As his attorney, I must follow his instructions in this regard. Like you, that was my first reaction: I thought his intent was to end the process as quickly as possible so the rest of us could get on with our lives. It occurred to me too, that he was not only thinking of us, but Rivka as well. I thought perhaps he didn't want his troubles to get in the way of her making a successful transition to San Francisco. Maybe he wants to get out of the way so she can reunite with her family, focus on her training and her career."

"But...?"

"But - there's more to it than that. I'm certain that all of those things I just said do factor into his decision. But I believe he is thinking this through, trying to reach an outcome that fits his beliefs.

"What he's said to me is that there is no disputing the basic facts anymore, now that not only Peterson, but Harris and McGowan are corroborating our story. And, by the way, they've located the two missing Wellington guards and the doctor, alive - I can fill you in on that later. But here's what I think Heath was trying to explain to me.

"He understands that the AG has an agenda regarding vigilantism, and Heath certainly knows there are hostile winds blowing around him here. He doesn't want a trial in which the attorney general will feel he has to dig up Heath's past, try to paint him as a dangerous, unstable person, just so there can be some sort of sanction on record. Heath is willing to be held accountable for the decisions he made to protect his brothers. He doesn't feel that any good would be served by creating another needless conflict. He believes the facts are there for the grand jury to review, and he's willing to trust the court to decide what the law requires of him."

Jarrod sat back and rubbed his face. "And once he put it that way, Mother, I had a hard time arguing against it."

Victoria looked at Jarrod and said quietly, "He is brave, our Heath. And, I think, wise. I hope his faith is not misplaced. I hope that trust won't be used against him -" She stopped, looking past Jarrod toward the hotel entrance, a look of tentative surprise appearing on her face. "It couldn't be -" she murmured. "Could it...?"

"Excuse me." Behind him, Jarrod heard a woman's voice, contralto, faintly European in accent. "Are you Mrs. Barkley?"

Jarrod turned and stood, and found himself facing a strikingly beautiful, dark-haired young lady, dressed in a dusty, but well-tailored, brown dress. She was nearly as tall as he, slim, with a direct, confident demeanor. She acknowledged Jarrod as he stood, but turned her attention back to Victoria, awaiting her response.

Victoria's smile grew. "Rivka? It is you, yes?"

Rivka nodded, smiling back.

Victoria practically leaped to her feet to embrace this unexpected arrival. "Rivka. You're _here_. How is that possible? There's no way you could have received my wire or my letter yet!"

"I haven't," she said simply. "I read the newspapers. I knew I needed to be here." She turned. "You must be Jarrod, the attorney, the oldest brother, correct?"

He bowed over her hand. "Dr. Levi, I am honored to meet you."

Rivka laughed. Jarrod was immediately captivated by her smile. "That title is still so new. In _my_ mind, Dr. Levi is my mother." She grew serious again, looking back and forth between them. "I overheard some of what you were saying, Jarrod - can you fill me in on everything? Tell me about Heath - how is he - can I see him?"

The three sat down to talk well into the afternoon. Victoria felt a quiet joy, the joy of a gift received in one's darkest hours.


	84. chapter 84

_Note: Attorney General Buckner was a real person, and he did sit on the Nevada Prison Board as well, but anything else about him in this story I pretty much made up. There actually was a group of four masons incarcerated in the NSP in July 1874, charged with assault and robbery. They were of different nationalities and different states (two from New York, one from Louisiana, and one from Ohio), they were all sentenced to 12 years, and it got me wondering what their back story was. Can't say I'll end up elaborating too much on their story, but I did give them a leader named Mickie._

 _Nevada_ _State Prison, August, 1874_

"I'm serious, Cho. Don't just dig those up and throw them away. That's good food right there."

"Heath, you are playing a joke. The only thing those plants are good for is to give you a stinging rash all over and no sleep for a week!"

"I'll show you. We used to eat these all the time growing up. Just use your gloves. Don't touch 'em until they're cooked. Once they're steamed up or boiled they're just fine - and tasty too."

Cho, an elderly Chinese man who worked as a cook for the prison, grumbled suspiciously, but he pulled on his gloves and began carefully gathering the clump of weeds that had grown up in the yard near the cookhouse door. Heath smiled and nodded encouragingly. "Just be careful, Cho. You're gonna thank me, I promise."

"Hmn," the old man grunted. "Maybe." Then he looked past Heath toward the yard and narrowed his eyes. "Officers comin'. Better git." He jerked his chin to the pump house next door, where Heath had been sent to sweep earlier.

"Yep. See ya."

Heath limped back to the pump house. He had long since completed his assigned task of sweeping. Casting about for something else to do, he had busied himself with cleaning, lubricating, and reassembling several of the pump flow controllers. Once that task was done, he stepped outside and had noticed Cho about to dig up the clump of stinging nettles with a shovel and pitch them into the refuse pile. He remembered the first time he collected them for his mama, when he was little. He had no gloves then, and he did get a rash that kept him up for a week, but they were some tasty greens when his mama cooked 'em.

He put his broom away and stood awaiting the approaching guard officer. It was getting on toward evening, and most of the inmates were already off work hours and getting ready for dinner.

It had been less than a week since John Smith had delivered him back within the walls of Warden Hyman's well-run prison, and less than three weeks since Donovan and his officers had nearly beaten him to death in the quarry. He hadn't lied to Jarrod when they talked this morning, exactly. He had been eating well - at least on those few shifts not run by officers who were in league with Risley. The actual work Heath had been assigned over the past few days had been manageable – mopping floors wasn't making the general misery of his body any worse than it already was. The trouble came with those incidents and obstacles he ran into during the day, hazards that seemed decidedly to be increasing in frequency.

There was the loading platform that collapsed, right after the shift captain has sent him up to sweep it clear of gravel, dumping him nine feet down into a pile of rock and falling lumber. Or the runaway wagon loaded with stone that nearly ran him over as he was collecting refuse in a narrow alleyway between barracks. The officer who "wasn't looking where he was going" and "accidentally" pushed Heath down a flight of stairs. Then - well, then there was the run-in Heath had early this morning, just before Jarrod arrived.

He was leaving the infirmary. The doctor had just cut the cast from his left arm, and the limb felt strangely light without the weight of the plaster. Heath flexed and extended the fingers of his left hand as he walked, testing the stiffness and strength of the muscles. Heath was lost in thought, anticipating Jarrod's visit, when he collided with a guard who had stepped into his path. The guard promptly shoved him back a few paces with the broadside of his shotgun.

"Watch where you're going, mutt."

Heath put up his hands, taking an additional step back. "Sorry, boss, not paying attention." He had heard what the guard had called him. He'd heard that name off and on all his life, but it seemed to be a favorite here among those he had come to identify as Risley's cronies. He didn't want to give any of them a reason to get him on the ground again. On the contrary, he was trying as best he could to stay out of harm's way and make it through these next weeks in one piece.

The guard grunted a laugh that held no warmth. "It's your hide, you wanna be stupid." He gestured with his shotgun. "Shift cap'n wants you to get those empty crates from the shed behind the cookhouse, move 'em over to the incinerator. Now."

Heath opened his mouth to say he had a meeting with his attorney, but then thought better of it. He cleared his throat.

"Yessir, I'll get over there." He backed away from the guard.

Walking back toward the cookhouse, Heath watched the morning sunlight gradually illuminate the mountains to the west. A horse whinnied somewhere nearby, and for a brief moment, Heath felt a longing for home so intense it took his breath away and caused him to stop in his tracks. He rubbed his face with his hands. The memory of the freedom and joy he felt working his family's land seemed like a distant, impossible dream to him this morning. He shook his head, shook off the sadness, and got moving again.

It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimness as he moved to the back of the shed, but he soon spotted the pile of empty wooden crates. It was brutally hot and stuffy in the small building. Heath took off his shirt, tying it around his hips, figuring that would help him stay a little cooler, at least until he had the crates moved outside the door. As he reached for the first one, he heard the men enter the shed behind him, and his heart sank. He slowly replaced the crate he had lifted, and turned to face whatever this morning's trouble was going to be.

There was a gang of five men who had all been incarcerated on the same day, about two weeks ago. They were masons by trade, a rough, burly bunch who had discovered that they could make a better living - and more easily support their respective families - by working together to corner lone travelers and relieve them of their valuables. In prison, the five men continued to stick together, keeping their own counsel, until yesterday, when Heath saw them speaking at length with Adam Risley off in a corner of the mess hall. Heath wondered if they had been offered a new way to take care of their families. Certainly they had shown little interest in Heath before this moment.

Automatically, he looked them over each individually, then tried to get a sense of them as a pack. The smallest of them out-weighed Heath by at least twenty pounds. They approached him with the two biggest, scariest guys up front and center. Two quicker-looking guys moved out to the sides, Heath figured, just in case their target wasn't completely paralyzed with fear by the giants in the point position. That would place the leader as the one bringing up the rear.

"Mornin'," Heath offered conversationally, brushing dust from his hands. His mouth was dry as dust, and he tried mightily not to look as scared as he was. He could feel his muscles guarding as he involuntarily anticipated what those fists were going to feel like pounding into broken ribs and a barely-closed-over gunshot wound. He attempted unsuccessfully to make eye contact with the leader. "What can –"

He didn't have a chance to finish his question before Big Guy on the Left threw a looping right-hand punch at him. Heath ducked, shoving him to the side with the momentum of the missed swing so he fell into Big Guy on the Right, taking them both down in a heap. Heath sent the tall stack of wooden crates down on top of the two for good measure, also tangling up the man coming in from that flank as a bonus. The quick one coming in from the left was on him in a heartbeat. Heath threw every punch he could, as fast as he could, taking a few good shots himself in the process, because he figured putting that guy down fast was his only chance for making it to the door. He was hoping and praying the leader wouldn't present an insurmountable obstacle to getting outside.

It almost worked. Heath managed to stay on his feet and got a few strides past the pile toward the door. He was ready to put his shoulder down and just run right through the man standing between him and the sunlight, when one of the Big Guys – now enraged – reached out a long arm and tripped him up mid-stride. Heath went down rolling and came up hard against a row of barrels. He rolled back to all fours, grimacing, aiming to get back on his feet and out the door, but the leader stepped in and efficiently kicked his arms out from under him, then planted his boot squarely on Heath's recently-fractured left forearm.

When he was able to think past the blinding pain that resulted, Heath marveled at both the attention to detail and the precision that boot represented. He was effectively pinned to the floor with no more effort from the gang leader than if the man had kicked a small stone out of his way on the road. Heath stopped struggling and just lay on the dirt floor of the shed, sweating, groaning behind clenched teeth, and getting a detailed look at the stitching of the leather footwear that at the moment ruled his world.

He listened unhappily to the sound of angry men getting to their feet behind him, helpless to do anything but ponder the disturbing questions going through his mind.

 _How the hell did he know to plant his foot right there? Who the hell is paying that kind of attention?_

Of course he knew who was paying him that kind of attention. Risley had been there as an honored guest the day Donovan almost raped and killed him. Risley was here waiting for him when Smith brought him back to prison. Risley had power here, though Heath did not yet know why. The easiest explanation was money – Risley had plenty of it, if he had hidden it well, and he could have ways to execute that influence from inside the prison. Through his lawyer, maybe, or some other representative. Payoffs for the officers of the guard? They behaved like they were his loyal employees, and in a way they probably were. Family support for this gang of robbers? Why not?

"How much is Risley paying you?" Heath croaked, trying to get a look at the face of the man who was crushing his broken arm.

"Shut up, punk," the man barked. Heath couldn't silence a cry of pain as the man stomped harder on his arm and then crouched down to look in his eyes. Trying hard to ignore the fact that his arm felt like it was going up in flames, Heath met the man's gaze. He saw intelligence in his face, and deep anger. Heath didn't think that anger was directed at him. _Who then?_

As he began to think that through, Heath was interrupted by a solid, rage-filled kick in the ribs. Unable to get away, Heath tried to brace himself for the revenge of the Big Guys, whose anger, at the moment, _was_ directed entirely at him.

"Back off, Donnie. He ain't going nowhere, and we ain't here to beat him down, least not all the way."

"Rrrrrrr – Alright. Whatever you say, Mickey." Looking disappointed, the four men backed off.

"Mickey. Your name's Mickey?" Heath rasped out, trying to get some handle on the situation. "Where – aagh, OK, _OK_ , I'll be quiet, please –" The grinding of the bones in his arm was giving him waves of nausea. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the dirt floor, trying not to vomit.

The shed door opened and closed, the brief sunlight flashing red inside his eyelids. The smell and taste of the dust in his face was starting to rustle up some very bad memories, memories Heath was pretty sure would not be helpful in his current situation. He heard footsteps, and he knew without looking whose voice he would hear next.

"Seems it's my turn to say welcome home, Barkley." Risley chuckled. "I'm sorry I haven't been giving you my personal, hands-on attention since you've returned. That will have to wait, but not too long, I hope." Risley knelt down beside Heath, noticing that the boy had started to shiver. Risley reached out a hand and traced over the still-healing marks of his whip, red and angry, overlying the old scars. He smiled when he felt the prisoner jump at the contact. _These are mine,_ Risley thought fondly.

Heath flinched away from his touch, his forehead on the ground, his eyes now squeezed shut. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest. _Don't give him that_ , he ordered himself. _Be still. Don't react._

"Yes, welcome home, Barkley. As I said, I plan to see you hang, or at the very least, see you make this your permanent home. I hope my various associates have been giving you the proper attentions. We'll get better at it as we go, not to worry. My hospitality also extends outside the walls of this prison, boy, so keep that in mind. It's been a pleasure to know your friends and family are so accessible as they gather round to support you in your time of trouble."

Heath thought of Jarrod, at this moment probably waiting for him in the prison visitation area, and his mother, waiting on news at the hotel. With a wordless roar, he tried desperately to fight free, struggling with no real plan except the slim chance he could get his hands on Risley and kill him. Mickey knocked Heath back down quickly with his fists, then ensured his docility by twisting his left arm behind his back. Heath lay still again, breathing hard, trying to think past his rage. "What do you _want_ , Risley? What is it?"

Risley was unable to resist running his hands again over the wounds his skill had produced. He smiled, as the boy trembled and growled his rage and frustration into the dirt like the mongrel he was. "I've told you what I want, what I intend, boy. I want to see you crushed under the weight of the law you and your degenerate family called down upon me. You cannot stop me, because I am like the heroes of myth and legend. I have no other purpose, no higher goal, and I care not what happens to me." Risley stood and looked down at the prisoner at his feet. He might not be Warden any longer, but this boy was his prisoner once again, and that was as it should be. He nodded to Mickey, then turned and left the shed, the five men following, leaving Heath alone.

In the dim shed, Heath sat up shakily, sweating and cradling his throbbing left arm. He wiggled his fingers, and despite the pain, was relieved to see all the moving parts were still working. He couldn't tell if it was broken again, or just felt like it, but he grabbed two slats of wood and a strip of cloth and splinted it, just to be safe. Not too much time had passed since he walked into the shed, and he thought he'd be less likely to get a beating from the guards if he completed his job of moving the crates before he went to see Jarrod. Heath considered that moving the crates would also give him a chance to settle down and think through the threat that Risley presented. If he went right to Jarrod now, he'd still be shaky and scared and fired up with rage, and he didn't think that would be helpful to Jarrod or himself.

Heath had decided last night on how he wanted to plead before the grand jury. Everything he heard about this prosecutor Buckner suggested he would aggressively try to paint Heath as a danger to society, if he felt it was necessary to secure a sanction from the court. If presented with a plea of innocence, he would simply ramp up his attack on Heath's character and reputation to match any argument that Heath was a responsible citizen who had acted honorably and was justified in killing those five men.

Heath was a poker player. Buckner had a lot of chips in his stack, and a seemingly endless willingness to up the ante until his opponent – who had a great deal to lose in the process – would finally fold. To Heath, that all seemed both destructive and unnecessary. He would plead no contest and call the AG's hand before things became even more polarized and distorted than they already were. Heath believed the court would be able to make the best decision at that point, before a prolonged court battle stirred up emotions and muddied everyone's thinking.

Risely wanted things polarized and distorted, that was clear. Walking over to the visitation building, Heath mulled this over. While Risley's vendetta didn't change how he wanted to plead, Heath wasn't sure yet how he was going to manage this new threat. He didn't yet want to sound the alarms with Jarrod, either, just so long as he and Smith were hunting Risley with their eyes open.

During their meeting, Heath minimized the bruises he couldn't hide from Jarrod and tried to give him some reassurance, but it was a struggle to remain upbeat and energetic. He gathered up the books Jarrod had brought him – once they were checked through by the guards – wincing as he balanced them on his left arm. He tried to smile as his brother turned to wave from the door.

As soon as he stepped back into the yard, he was confronted by one of the officers from Hyman's office.

"Sir?"

"Come with me. Warden wants to see you."

Heath followed the officer into the administration building. A junior guard met them outside the warden's office, where he put shackles on Heath's wrists and locked them to a chain around his waist.

"Regulations, for meeting with the warden," the guard offered.

Heath nodded. They entered Hyman's office, and Heath was directed where to stand on the rug, two paces back from the warden's big desk. Hyman looked disapprovingly at Heath, then nodded to the junior guard, who escorted in one of the five masons, the one Heath had beaten, also in shackles. Both of his eyes were blackened, and he appeared to be missing several teeth.

"Inmate Finney, is this the inmate that assaulted you?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Inmate Barkley, do you deny assaulting Inmate Finney?"

"I don't deny fighting with him, Warden. He and the other four of his gang attacked me while I was doing some clean-up in the shed this morning."

Hyman nodded to the guard, who escorted Finney out. The warden then turned back to Heath.

"Be warned, young man. Marshal Smith has vouched for you in the strongest terms, but that does not give you a free pass to behave however you choose in _my_ prison, or to take the law into your – your – hands."

Heath could hear him struggling not to insert the word "filthy" into that sentence. _My filthy, unworthy, bastard hands._

"Your behavior and record while incarcerated here will be contained in our report received by the grand jury when it comes time to decide your case, and as such can have a direct bearing on the outcome. It would be wise for you to stay out of trouble. Are we clear, inmate?"

"Absolutely clear, Warden."

Heath looked down at the books in his hands. _I was not born to be forced. I will breathe after my own fashion. Let us see who is the strongest._


	85. chapter 85

_Nevada State Prison, August, 1874_

"Officer's coming. Better git."

"Yep. See ya."

Heath turned to walk back to the pump house. He put his broom away and stood awaiting the approaching guard officer. It was getting on toward evening, and most of the inmates were already off work hours and getting ready for dinner.

He felt a light touch on his arm and turned to see Cho offering him a small packet wrapped in wax paper.

"Didn't see you for breakfast or lunch today. Take this." Cho pressed the small bundle of food into his hand.

Heath glanced over his shoulder at the approaching officer. "Cho, you shouldn't -"

"You won't be any good to anyone if you starve to death."

"It's not that, Cho, I just don't want to cause any trouble for you. I thank you, though. Really." Heath handed the packet back to the old man. His stomach growled angrily at him, disappointed and empty. Heath was seriously hungry, for sure, but he'd gotten Risley's message this morning. There was no way he was going to let this nice man get hurt for helping him.

The officer was a big man, barrel-chested from years of smoking, but hard-muscled and plenty strong. He looked Heath over, then watched Cho as he disappeared inside the cookhouse.

"Barkley."

"Sir," Heath answered automatically. He was pretty sure the smirk on the officer's face did not bode well for how the rest of his evening was going to go.

"Turn out your pockets."

Heath complied. The guard fisted his hand in the front of Heath's shirt, walking him backwards toward the stone pumphouse. "Hands on the wall," he barked, spinning him around and giving him a push.

Heath braced himself, favoring his left arm and wincing as the officer roughly searched him for any contraband. He felt the man run his hands up the length of his legs. Abruptly wrenching Heath's arms down behind his back, the officer shoved him hard up against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. Pinning him there with his weight, the officer reached one arm around Heath's waist, pressing suggestively against his back. "Good thing for that old Chinaman you didn't take anything from him. Otherwise _he'd_ be in some trouble," the officer husked in his ear. The threat was clear. The arm tightened around his waist. "Now, how about you and I step inside here so's I can just check your work."

Heath struggled to catch his breath and think. A bleak feeling of despair came worming into his mind, fueled by hunger and the steady diet of helplessness being shoved down his throat.

That terrible feeling frightened Heath even more than the prospect of being dragged into the pump house by this brutal officer. _Surrender_ _is not an option_ , he thought desperately, repeating the brave statement to himself until it felt like he believed it. _They_ _attack the body because they have no power over the_ _spirit_. _But what of the ones they attack because of me..?_

The side of his face pressed up against the stone wall, he could see the cookhouse, saw Cho step out into the porch with a small pack on his back. In the crystal clear evening light the old man looked right at him and shook his head no. Cho then pointed to himself, and pointed away. Then he vanished from Heath's sight, disappearing behind the small stone building and walking quickly toward the front gate of the prison. The officer breathing down Heath's neck did not see him go.

Heath tensed. _Here goes_ , he thought. _Let us see who is the strongest._ "I ain't going to 'check' anything with you, sir. You're gonna have to kill me first, and I don't think your boss Risley would be too happy with you if you did that. You hurt that excellent cook, and I don't think Warden Hyman will appreciate that very much. So why don't you just back off and we'll move on to wherever else y'all have planned for me tonight?"

"Insolent mutt," the officer growled in frustration, tightening his grip for a moment. Then he stepped back and slammed a hard fist into Heath's back. Heath gasped and slid to his knees, leaning against the wall.

"You having trouble with this inmate, officer?"

Squinting into the setting sun, Heath could make out only the silhouette of a man, but he recognized Ramos' voice immediately. Relieved, he took a breath and starting working on getting back on his feet.

"No. No trouble," the guard grunted, fuming. He glared at Heath. "Y'all got a bunch more work to do, boy."

"Yes, sir."

As he watched them walk away toward the mess hall, Deputy Marshal Anton Ramos worked to control his own rage. Even from a distance, Ramos had seen how it played out: the offer of food, the worried refusal, the body search intended to bully and intimidate both the inmate and anyone who thought to help him, the constant threat of physical or even sexual assault. Ramos had seen variations of this occurring almost continuously since Heath had been brought back to this prison. He was pretty sure he was next about to see one of the other games the officers favored. They would assign Heath to a job that was terrible, impossible, or both, and then liberally apply verbal and physical abuse until either the guards became bored, or the rest of the inmate population had long since gone to bed.

Ramos was perceptive enough to see that this ongoing pressure was orchestrated by Risley. Risley's attention to detail and knowledge of prison routine would allow him to pursue this vendetta while skirting the limits of what Warden Hyman would notice and censure.

Some incidents, like the one this morning, certainly required planning and coordination. Roberts had been here this morning, and had been distracted by a scuffle in the yard long enough to lose track of Heath's location. By the time he spotted him again, Heath was already hauling boxes over to the incinerator, looking dirty and lame and sporting a new black eye.

That incident _was_ brought to the warden's attention, though not for the reasons Ramos would have preferred. This led the deputy marshal to his next worry. Ramos suspected that Risley had a longer-term aim than just making Heath suffer on a daily basis. He was trying to wear Heath down, but to what end?

Ramos would be meeting up with Smith tonight, and they'd have to go over their strategy again. The situation inside the prison was becoming steadily more dangerous. They were working a few leads on the outside, though, and Ramos dearly hoped they'd pay off quickly.


	86. chapter 86

_Whatever outrages have happened to men may befall a man again...Warned, self-collected and neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his hand, and, with perfect urbanity dare the gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his speech and the rectitude of his behavior. Towards all this external evil the man within the breast assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To this military attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Heroism"_

 _Carson_ _City, late August, 1874_

Mike Peterson came loping into the hotel lobby, accompanied by a gust of wind and a swirling cloud of dust. He shook his coat and smacked his hat against his leg.

"Holy cow, Billy, that's some change in the weather comin' through. Thought I'd be blown right off my horse on the way over!"

"You ain't kiddin', Mikey. Got my crew sweeping floors all over the hotel every free minute. Seems like all the dirt outside wants to come in here. What can I do you for?"

"Where would I find Mrs. Barkley?"

Billy made a sour face. "She's took the private dining room in back, says she's going to be meeting with her lawyer son, and some marshals, and maybe even Buckner."

"What's that face for, Billy? Something not to your liking?"

"I been reading the papers. You're a good fella, Mike. What are you doing mixed up with these Barkley people and their mess with this bastard son o' theirs?"

Mike smiled and leaned on the counter, beckoning the hotelier to listen. "Look at me, Billy. We been friends for a good many years now, right?" Billy nodded. "So listen up. This man, Heath Barkley, saved my life in the war. He is one of the kindest, bravest, most honorable men I have ever known, and what is being written in the newspapers is complete manure. His family seem to me to be excellent people as well, though I can't claim to have known them for nearly as long. So who are you going to believe, Billy? Me, or some newspaper editor who's probably being paid off by that Risley guy?"

"Really? You _know_ this guy?"

"Named my oldest daughter after him, pal," Mike said, laughing. "That's another story I'll tell you later. You take good care of these folks, Billy. Ain't no one more deserving. Feel free to let people know. Now, where's the dining room?"

Victoria sat with Rivka, the two deep in conversation as Jarrod arranged and reviewed papers and books on another table. Mike made a noisy entrance, crossing the big dining room to where the family was seated. "Good morning Mrs. Barkley, Jarrod! I have good news! When is Marshal Smith going to get here? I want to – "

He stopped midstride with his mouth open as Rivka stood and smiled at him.

"No. It _couldn't_ – really? How - ? Look at you. Jiminy Christmas. My little underground elf! You're all grown up!"

"Mikey!" Rivka laughed, sounding for all the world like the 12-year-old she was when they had known each other. She ran around the table and hugged him, tears in both of their eyes. Their talk went rapidly back and forth, firing questions at each other to get caught up on who, what, where, how – bringing them back to the present moment. They sat down facing each other, ready now to talk about what had brought them all here, to talk about Heath, where he was, how he was, and how to get him safely home.

Watching them, Jarrod realized that these two very different people shared a history with his brother Heath that few others – certainly not Heath's family – could really understand. He felt profoundly grateful that Mike and Rivka could be here for Heath, and also for each other.

Rivka leaned in close. "Tell me, Mike. Jarrod and Victoria have told me what they can, but I want to hear from you. You've seen him. Tell me. How bad is it? How bad has it been?" Her dark eyes were intent on his face.

Mike took a deep breath and held both her hands. He allowed himself to see Heath as he was in the hospital, to remember all the things that Tom told him about Wellington, and - uncomfortable as it made him – he let himself remember, _really_ remember how it was in Carterson. "Rivka, it's been bad. I saw him after he had already been in the hospital for over a week. As far as how he was physically, well he started out bigger and stronger and a heck of a lot better fed going into this mess than we ever were back in '64. But over the past almost 3 months – honey, it's been as bad as it ever was for us, 'cept he's had a few chances at some decent doctoring since he got out of Wellington. That's probably the only reason he's still alive, to be honest." Rivka eyes did not leave his face, but tears began to slip down her cheeks as she took in his words. "This Risley, he's an evil one. I'd say he's worse than Bentell ever was. What the deputies have been telling me they've seen in the prison here – what Tom told me about what Risley was doing to Heath in Wellington – I'm worried for him, honey. Our boy's been trapped in this mess for months. Risley is hunting him in there. Heath managed to get his brothers out of it, and if you ask him he'll say that's all that matters, but he's – he's struggling."

"Worse than Bentell. Worse than –?" Her eyes questioning.

Jarrod looked up, listening.

"No, darlin', no. Not quite like _him_ , but, _damn_ , Risley's sure trying. "

Rivka squeezed his hands, took a deep breath. Victoria could see the effort she was making to not give free rein to the rage and fear she was feeling. For all that Victoria didn't share the wartime horrors these two had experienced, _that_ struggle she understood.

Mike asked gently, "Does he know you're here? They haven't let you see him?"

"No. They haven't allowed anyone but Jarrod, not even Victoria."

"It's just wrong. He hasn't even been convicted of anything!" Mike cried in frustration. He looked at Victoria. "And he won't be, if we can prevent it. When do you expect Marshal Smith? I do have some information he's been waiting for. I told him last night I'd know for sure today." Mike chuckled. "It was the only way I could get him to stay with us for dinner last night for a change, instead of heading out with his bedroll and his rifle. Can't have the Marshal going hungry, he's too busy."

"Bedroll and rifle? What on earth do you mean? Doesn't he stay in town?"

Mike laughed. "Not for a while now. He's got a desk here, in the federal building, but he's been roughing it most nights except when Helena and I can convince him to stay with us. And then what with him going back and forth between here and Wellington, supervising the investigation down there – "

"Mike, I don't understand," Victoria said. "That still doesn't explain –"

"He's pretty cagey, that guy. Though I suspect he's especially cagey with you, Mrs. Barkley." Mike seemed amused.

Victoria merely raised her eyebrows at him. He got the message. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll be clearer. Marshal Smith hasn't taken a salary for almost two months now. He's got his team working overtime here and in Wellington, and covering shifts in the prison itself, trying to keep the hyenas away from Heath. He doesn't exactly have a budget from Washington for all that, so he's been paying them out of his salary."

"Why hasn't he talked to me about this?"

"Well, if I had to guess – and I might as well, since I'm telling on him anyway - he's worried about Heath. It's making him crazy feeling like he can't protect him the way he wants to. He doesn't want to burden you with that. Second of all, it was his choice how to make sure his men are paid, so it wasn't your affair, and besides it wouldn't be legal for you to help financially. He didn't want you to feel uncomfortable, or beholden in some way. And third of all – well, he's proud. And I think he's more than a bit in love with you, ma'am, no disrespect intended. He wants to get your boy home safe, no matter what."

 _Nevada State Prison, same day_

The howling wind, dust, and heat was a misery for anyone working out of doors that morning, and Heath had been out there since the day before. Some of the inmates, including the five mason robbers, had been given the task of scraping out, cleaning, and repairing the tin and cast iron pots and pans, which job they were doing under a large open tent attached to the kitchen. The men worked in a desultory fashion, some averting their eyes from the purgatorial scene before them, and some preferring to watch Heath as an entertainment that made them feel fortunate by comparison.

Now mid-morning, Heath worked as if in a fog, digging out a 4 by 8 by 6-foot refuse ditch by the mess hall, a hole very much like a grave. He had already dug this same ditch last night, working past midnight, as the rest of the inmates filed through for their dinner and then went off to bed. By 2 AM, the night shift officer was bored and let Heath break for some water and a bit of leftover dinner. He then told him to get some sleep right there by the ditch, because it had been dug in the wrong spot, and would have to be filled in before sunup. Then it would have to be dug again, a few feet over.

When the day shift arrived, the inmates filed through again for breakfast. Risley sat eating, observing Heath closely, with great concentration. Mickey sat by his four companions, loose-limbed and alert, sharing his careful attention between the two men equally. The shift captain arrived to evaluate the digging work, a long measuring stick in his hand.

"Barkley. Who told you to put this ditch here?"

Heath leaned heavily on his shovel, standing in a trough about 2 feet deep, sweating and out of breath. It was slow going, as either swinging a pick or lifting with a shovel was equally painful, and his grip with his left hand was at best unreliable. He knew this drill by now, but he was finding it harder and harder to ignore his overwhelming sense of futility and just answer the shift captain. He wanted them to just leave him alone and let him keep digging till he passed out or dropped dead. That seemed preferable to responding to their stupid questions.

"No one, I guess, boss. You want it somewhere else?" he said hoarsely. A fit of coughing seized him, a deep, dry, barking cough. His eyes watered from the pain. His voice was just about gone from the hours of labor in the flying dust. He closed his eyes, waiting.

The shift captain nodded, then struck Heath across the shoulders with the measuring stick. Heath made no sound, but staggered, then dropped to his knees, still holding on to the shovel with a white knuckled-grip.

"You put it in the wrong place again, and you'll be feeling that stick from now until sundown."

"Where –"

The captain struck him again. "Stop asking questions, boy, and just move that ditch." The captain looked up at Risley, who nodded to him. He turned back, grinning tightly at his prisoner. "Ain't like you got somewhere else to go today. Think you're gonna get to visit that Jew girlfriend of yours? Not likely. Where'd you find her anyway? A Jew girl and a mongrel dog, what a pair."

Heath froze. He felt like he had just been kicked in the gut. Was he hearing things? Was he starting to lose his mind from hunger and no sleep?

"I hear she's _real_ pretty, though."

Heath rose and turned on him, holding the shovel across his body, his muscles shaking. He could see from the guard's face it was true – could see Risley smiling coolly at him from the mess hall. Heath could feel his rage rising even as he knew these guards would gun him down before he could make a move to act upon it. He knew he was showing them how they could hurt him. He didn't care. He couldn't stop himself. He took a step forward, all lethargy gone, blue eyes narrowed and focused on the captain's face. "You touch that woman, you even think about her, and I'll kill you."

The captain pulled out his sidearm and took a step back, looking slightly surprised and uncertain. "Back off, mutt. Just makin' conversation. Get digging."

Heath didn't move or drop his lethal stare. The guard lifted the sidearm and pulled back the hammer. Off to the side, unnoticed, Mickey frowned and leaned forward slightly.

After a long moment, Heath looked into the black eye of the pistol and decided not to die, not just yet. He turned and began filling in the ditch, his thoughts racing, wondering frantically about Rivka. He prayed she was safe with his mother and Jarrod.

 _Carson City, same day_

Another miniature dust storm swirled into the hotel lobby, as John Smith arrived with Deputy Marshals Ramos and Roberts. Billy greeted them with noticeably more hospitality and good will than previously. "Good morning, Marshals. I believe you're joining Mrs. Barkley this morning in the private dining room?" He pointed the way.

"Thank you kindly," Smith removed his hat and headed back with his deputies.

Entering the room, he greeted Victoria warmly, asking after her health and well-being, and taking his introduction to the young Dr. Levi with great seriousness and courtesy. Turning quickly to business, he had Ramos share his disturbing report from within the prison, then turned to Roberts for some better news.

"I located Dr. Logan, along with Jake Moreno and Evan Williams, the two Wellington guards who helped Peterson get the doctor and Barkley out of the camp. The doctor is alive, and - get this - while he remembers nothing of being attacked, being drunk at the time, he remembers distinctly Risley telling Peterson to kill him. Remembers it word for word, exactly as in Peterson's statement. The three of them had been hiding out in a cabin way off in the back of William's spread. With everything they saw in the paper, they didn't feel safe to come out. But I hunted them down, and they are en route here, should get in by tonight."

Smith turned to Mike. "OK, you're up."

"More good news. I found Risley's money man."

Smith took a deep breath in. "Tell me."

Mike went on to describe an American-born young Chinese man, a skilled mathematician, who became an accountant for several Carson City businesses, including Peterson's blacksmith shop. This young man had also been hired by Risley about two years ago, and over time, lured by the intrigue of money laundering and the excellent pay, he had become Risley's loyal employee. He had been funneling his money, and instructions, and press releases - sending it all out to do Risley's bidding, and then routing information back into the prison. Then came the recent day when his grandfather, a man he deeply revered, came home bruised and terrorized from his job as a cook at the state prison. Once his grandfather told him his tale, Min Cho was more than ready to testify against Risley, and could provide ample details of his operations.

Ramos and Mike Peterson shared a look. "Mike, you tell him the good part."

Mike grinned. "Here's the thing – and I'll leave it to you legal guys to decide how you're going to swing this hammer – Cho, my brother Tom, Moreno, and Williams have all said that they will refuse to assist Buckner against Risley unless Buckner cuts a deal for Heath. They know Buckner will still be able to get some kind of conviction on Risley, but without them, it won't be nearly as wide and deep as Buckner wants."

Jarrod stood, hands in his pockets. He looked at Smith, a hopeful smile on his face. "I think we can use this. Definitely."

Ramos spoke up again. "We're not out of the woods yet."

All eyes turned to him.

"Negotiating some sort of a deal with Buckner and the grand jury has been our aim all along, so this isn't really new, it just creates a better bargaining position. If I read Risley right, I have to think he has some angle to sabotage that. We're going to have to beat him to it somehow. If something happens inside that prison that sinks Heath into a bigger hole –" Ramos trailed off. He was disturbed by the pervasive malignancy he had seen inside the prison, uncertain of the ability of any man or woman to chart a safe course through such a poisonous sea.

"Heath understands that, don't you think? He will know to stay clear of any trouble," Victoria looked at Rivka and Mike, uneasy. In their eyes she could see their knowledge, their experience of the terrible things men do to other men, and the many ways, large and small, in which one can be broken or lost.

"He understands, yes," Rivka said quietly. "He understands, and if there is a way through, he will find it. He neither defies nor dreads the thunder," she murmured with a sad smile.


	87. chapter 87

_I walk through the churchyard  
_ _To lay this body down;  
_ _I know moon-rise, I know star-rise;  
_ _I walk in the moonlight, I walk in the starlight;  
_

 _I'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms,  
_ _I'll go to judgment in the evening of the day,  
_ _And my soul and thy soul shall meet that day,  
_ _When I lay this body down._

 _Song, from "The Souls of Black Folk", W.E.B. Du Bois_

 _Nevada State Prison, August, 1874_

The hot, dry wind continued to howl, full of stinging bits of gravel and dead vegetation. There seemed to be no sun, or shade, or any clear demarcation between ground and sky. There was only oppressive, inescapable heat, and the hissing, lashing wind.

Time passed so slowly. It seemed to Heath that he could see each hunk of rock and scoop of dirt in crystal detail as he dug into the ground. He could feel each piece of debris flung against his skin by the raging wind. He was shivering with a bone-deep cold, even as the intense summer heat weighed upon his back, his limbs heavy as lead. The hot air was thick and ungenerous, seeming to suffocate him even as he struggled to draw it in.

"You're here to get your attitude correct, mutt. Straighten up your thinking."

Heath no longer knew how many holes he had dug and filled in. He was, at this point, using a small mattock to chop away at the rocky ground, because he no longer had the strength to lift the heavier pickax. Over and over he would loosen a small pile of dirt, then slowly, painfully, he would lift it and dump it to the side, the shovel handle braced under his arm. For some time now he had been unable to grasp anything with his left hand.

He fought mightily not to cough, it being difficult to stop once he started. Not only was the coughing brutally painful, but the last bout brought him to the ground and he passed out briefly, down at the bottom of the ditch. He woke to the sound of laughter. Opening his eyes, he could see the outline of officers looking down at him from a height.

"He's dug his own grave, all right. How's about we just bury him right now?"

 _Dug my own grave. I guess I have, now._ Heath tried to think on that, as he slowly got back on his feet and retrieved his tools. _We_ _all_ _gotta lay down someday._ _I_ _think I would rather lay down in a grave I dug myself. Better than getting tossed into someone else's hole in the ground._

"I asked you a question, Barkley." The stick came whistling down on the back of his hands. "When I ask you a question, you stop what you're doing, stand up, and answer me."

The day shift captain walked a circle around Heath, who got unsteadily to his feet as the throbbing pain of his hands made him dizzy. He searched his memory for what question the guard wanted answered, and came up with nothing. Every bit of mental energy he had that wasn't taken up with the the daunting tasks of breathing and standing, was occupied with thoughts of Rivka. _Was she here? Why? How? How had she known to come here? Was she safe?_ He felt certain that under normal circumstances he would have been able to think it through and come to an explanation of her appearance. In his beleaguered state, he was simply overwhelmed by her sudden entrance into his rapidly shrinking sphere of existence. The thought of her was blinding, a presence even further away and more fantastic than even his distant dream of home had become.

Heath's gaze wandered over the the inmates, who no longer seemed to be pretending to work. They were either watching him, or they had turned their backs. The faces he could see mostly showed fear, or distaste, though some eyes shone with interest, even glee. He noted those, and would remember who they were. And then there was Mickey. He had not moved from his original spot, tucked off to the side by the firewood pile. He looked intently at Heath, waiting for Heath to see him. When their eyes met, Mickey shook his head slightly and gave several hand signals, signals Heath recognized immediately from his sharpshooter days in the Army. He frowned, and quickly looked away, so as not to draw attention to Mickey.

 _Look_ _out for the guard. Stand down. Hold your position. Hold your fire._

 _Hold my fire? What does he mean? Why is he warning me? What is he saying?_

The shift captain, for his part, was acutely aware of Risley watching him, replaying in his mind the derisive comments Risley had flung at him earlier. "You've had virtually an entire shift to get this done. The mongrel's half dead, and you act like you're scared of him. Why don't you just climb in the ditch with the mutt and start digging for him."

The officer glanced up at Risley again, who smirked and shook his head, as though he was useless. Heath just stood quietly, breathing hard, staring at the ground. It was infuriating. He turned on Heath and in a burst of rage, began beating him with the rod in his hand.

The sudden assault exploded upon Heath like a rain of fire, and he staggered forward and fell to his hands and knees. "That's better," the officer said, a little out of breath himself. "Now. Why do you think it's acceptable to just drop your tools on the ground, inmate? Are they your tools?" No answer. The stick slashed down. "You will never get out of this ditch if you don't start showing the proper attitude, mutt. Are they your tools?"

Heath dearly wanted to answer, thinking maybe if he could just say "No, sir," the guard would shut up and let him go back to digging his grave. Lying down in his own grave, with some peace and quiet and no turnkeys yelling stupid questions sounded pretty good to him right then. But he couldn't even croak out a "No, sir" at the moment. He could barely get enough air in to breathe. The rod came cracking down across his back. He gasped with the pain, fighting not to start coughing.

"You will _never_ get out of this ditch, inmate. Your little Jew whore waiting for you out there will have to find someone else. Maybe me and my crew will go find her when we get off today. Sure. We'll give her a real welcome to town, show her a good time with some good Christian boys, hmm? Then we'll send her along back to her kind. Don't want 'em here, with their lyin' and stealin' and schemin'. President Grant had it right back in '62. Should just round all them Jews up and run 'em outta the country. But I hear this whore of yours is pretty. So we'll just go see for ourselves."

The guards and several of the inmates began to laugh at this, shouting encouragement and lewd suggestions. Heath felt his hand close around the smooth wooden handle of the mattock. He could picture clear as day how he would bury the blade in the officer's neck. He looked at Mickey again, thinking, _Hold my position? How? How can I?_

Mickey signaled again, emphatically. _Stand down._ As Heath watched, Mickey stood, the expression on his face urgent. He stepped forward, shoving a pile of pots and pans out of his way as he moved closer.

The clattering of the pots and the screaming banshee sound of the gale seemed to fill Heath's head. He saw his target, and it was all he saw. He moved like a gust of wind. The mattock flew from his hand and buried itself true.

There was a brief silence, then mayhem. There were shouts of "Weapon loose!" from the guards, calling the alarm to the whole prison to contain an inmate who has gotten himself a gun or a blade. But it was Donnie, the Big Guy on the Left, who tackled Heath yelling "I got him, I got him, he's trying to kill us!"

Guards swarmed the area, as Donnie pulled Heath to his feet, holding him in a crushing bear hug. Heath felt himself losing consciousness, unable to get in even a shallow breath beyond Donnie's crushing grip.

"Donnie, please -" he tried to croak. "M - Mickey - I can't br - "

"Drop him," came an order. "He ain't going nowhere."

Donnie dropped him on the ground. Heath sucked in air, started coughing. The whole world went gray for a few minutes. When it cleared, he was on the ground surrounded by guards. All the inmates had backed away to form a distant perimeter. "Look what we found on you," the shift captain said triumphantly. He held up a vicious-looking shiv made from what looked like a filed-down trowel.

"What - that's not mine -" Heath said, suddenly deeply afraid. He felt the sides of the trap swinging closed around him. "I wasn't holding that. It's not -"

Warden Hyman stepped in to the circle, a scarf wrapped around his face against the blowing sand and dust. He glowered at Heath. "I thought we discussed this, Barkley. There's a deal on the table for you right now. But this - this could change everything."

"Warden, it's -"

"Save it for when your lawyer gets here," Hyman cut him off, gestured to one of the officers. "Solitary in the meantime."

Heath had no more energy to struggle or breath to argue. At least he was done with grave digging for now. The guards pulled him to his feet and walked him to the solitary block.

"Warden, excuse me, could I please show you something important?" Mickey approached, politely, diffidently.

Hyman turned to the mason, indicating to the guards that he could approach. "If it's quick."

"I want you to see what Barkley was after when he threw that ax, Warden." He pointed to the ground, where the pots had been that he had shoved away with his foot. Pinned to the ground by the blade of the mattock was a rattlesnake. "Killed him as dead as a mackerel, he did. Saved my life just now. Don't seem right to me the boy should be sitting in solitary for that, Warden. Mighta saved some other people too, you never know which way a scared rattler's gonna strike."

Hyman looked at the dead snake, and the dead snake seemed to look back at him. He sighed. He really would have preferred Barkley actually be the criminal his staff wanted him to believe he was. It would make this situation so much easier. That dead snake argued otherwise. The dead snake was telling him there was something very wrong happening in his well-run prison, and it was not going to look good on his next biennial report.


	88. Chapter 88

_Nevada State Prison, evening, same day_

"Last guy went after an officer with a weapon, I think he got an extra 6 years on his sentence."

"Yep, that was that crazy Frenchman that died from his appendix last year. Now, just _having_ a weapon, that's not as bad," the second guard said reassuringly, turning to include Heath in the conversation. "Seeing as you didn't actually attack the shift captain with that shiv. Might only be a year, year and a half maybe," he continued genially, as if his prisoner were participating in the discussion. "Thing is, though, in your situation, that's not going to sit well with the judge when your case comes up. Not at all. Yeah. You might be right to worry."

Heath heard them speaking as if at a great distance. The wind and dust whipped around the men as they crossed the yard, turning the world around him into a blurred, fluid canvas upon which his delirium could paint whatever scene it chose. He was having trouble focusing on the two men as they escorted him toward the solitary cell block. He felt as if he was moving through water - no, through sand, as if he was slowly drowning in sand. His arms and legs were heavy and slow. The air seemed thick and hot, too painful and too difficult to pull into his lungs, and even if he did, the air seemed to give him nothing. He was slowly suffocating.

"C'mon, Barkley, step it up. We're almost there."

Heath felt hands on his arms, at his back, pushing him forward. He saw his feet moving as though they belonged to someone else. Lifting his aching head, he could see the entrance to the cell block float into view. The two guards helped him make it up the few steps into the building. He stumbled and had to pause just inside the door to catch his breath. A vicious bout of coughing seized him, narrowing his world view down to just the burning pain in his lungs and the effort required to get enough air to survive.

After what seemed like an eternity, the coughing passed, and Heath straightened, eyes watering. He tried to take in his surroundings. They steered him forward a few steps through an inner door and down a short hallway, where he found himself facing the open iron portico of a solitary cell.

"OK, Barkley, shoes, socks, belt off."

The darkened entrance to the cell seemed to move and sway before his burning eyes. He couldn't remember how he came to be standing here, couldn't seem to keep any of his thoughts going in a straight line. He shook his head, began to back away. "No. No, I can't go back in there -" His voice was faint, hoarse.

"Whaddya mean, back in there? You ain't never been in the hole."

"Ah, c'mon, Barkley. You been a good boy so far, don't start givin' us trouble -"

There wasn't much trouble Heath _could_ give, at that point, but he saw smothering darkness and death waiting for him inside that cell, leering at him. He tried to pull himself free of their hands as they dragged him toward the open door and then threw him inside the cell. To their credit, these junior staff were not on a mission to abuse their prisoner. As Heath struggled weakly to get back up off the floor, the two men wrestled him face down onto the bare mattress in the middle of the room. One held him there without too much difficulty, while the other efficiently collected his boots, belt, and socks.

"Just settle down, cowboy. Ain't no point in fightin'."

"Jeez, he feels hot. And that cough sounds bad. Maybe the doc should have a look at him. I'll tell the evening shift guys." They stepped out, locking the door and leaving Heath alone.

* * *

In the mess hall, the inmates were shuffling in for dinner. The wind storm and the heat were easing. The general chatter between the men was picking back up to a normal level of animation. They shook off the day's dust along with the expectant, morbid hush that had prevailed as they witnessed the slow motion crushing of that Barkley inmate from California.

"He was just stupid to be carrying a blade, what with the way the guards been watching him. He's in deep trouble now. Hyman has _no_ toleration for that."

Risley leaned back, sipping his coffee in his usual spot in the mess hall. He smiled to himself. It would have been more satisfactory if the officer had succeeded in goading Barkley to attack him (even better if Barkley _had_ killed that barely-competent, annoying man). Still, the weapon offense was an adequate addition to the tomb he was building around his prisoner.

* * *

Heath rolled to his back, his breathing rapid and shallow. He shivered. Opening his eyes a crack, he saw the deep blue of a New Mexico winter sky. He tried to wrap his arms around the pain in his chest, as another fit of coughing battered him and left him exhausted, empty.

 _Easy, Heath, I'm here, I'll stay with you._

"Help me, Jimmy. I can't breathe, it hurts to breathe -"

 _It's ok, cowboy, just rest. You don't have to keep fighting. I'll stay with you._

"I don't wanna die, Jimmy -"

 _Just rest, buddy. You 'n me gonna go duck hunting together, and we'll eat and laugh, and you'll teach me to ride and I'll teach you to swim, and we won't either of us be stupid kids that signed up for a war._

Heath's eyes roamed glazed and unfocused over the stone and mortar of the cell, seeing southwestern mountains and adobe walls. Voices murmured. He saw Jimmy's sad face looking down at him. Heath lay among the dead in the courtyard, looking at that blue winter sky.

 _I'm sorry, Heath. I'm sorry I couldn't save you._

"Jimmy, don't leave me - I want to go home -"

 _Right here with you, buddy._

* * *

" _No_. You got what you wanted, what we agreed. Now where is she?"

Risley chuckled, smiling down at the table top as he stirred his coffee. "Not _exactly_ what I wanted. I think you could have done better. In fact, I think you warned him off - a decision I expect you will deeply regret." He looked up thoughtfully. "It remains to be seen whether you, or your wife, will regret it more. Unless, of course, you see fit to make reparations."

Mickey - known in a former life as Lieutenant Sean McNeil, of Colonel Berdan's 1st Regiment U.S. Sharpshooters - gripped the edge of the table and tried to close his mind against the terror of loss that filled him. A few days past, Risley had handed him a note written in his wife's familiar hand, informing him that she was a hostage, and would remain so until Mickey provided Risley with certain services inside the prison.

Risley had initially offered him - and his four men - a small payment for their talents. Mickey, however, refused. He was a perceptive man, sensitive to nuance, and he had taken his measure of Risley's brand of evil soon after he arrived. His men followed his lead.

Risley responded with an efficient approach - coerce the leader, and the pack will follow. He did his research, and discovered that the opportunity for cruelty in this instance was so appealing he couldn't be happier that Lt. McNeil had turned him down. He arranged for the kidnapping of Lara, Mickey's beloved wife, who also happened to be pregnant with their second child. The resulting abandonment of their first child, a boy of 6, to the dissolute care of estranged relatives, was an added bonus.

Mickey folded. He had negotiated payment for his men's families, and they in turn pooled some outside resources to at least keep his son safe and fed until his wife's release. He scowled at the ground, realizing he had nothing with which to bargain. He nodded. "I'm listening."

* * *

 _Yankee boy, I'm so pleased to see you again._

"No. _No_. You're dead, you're not here - "

Heath backed away until he came up against the wall. He shook his head, tears on his face. Hands grabbed his arms, dragged him back, pushed him down onto the floor. He tried to pull free but he couldn't breathe.

He could see Linceul holding him down, looking fondly into his eyes as he covered Heath's nose and mouth and smothered him. Linceul was running his hands over Heath's body, through his hair, doing what he pleased, smiling while he watched Heath suffocate.

 _Oh, I enjoy this even more than blindfolding you, I think._

"Please - please stop -" Heath brought his arms up to cover his face. "You're dead. I killed you. You're -" Coughing racked him.

 _I am dead. But I'll keep you with me, Yankee boy. You know I'll always take care of you. I'll always be here for you. You don't have to be alone._

"Who's dead? What's he talking about?"

"Who knows? He's out of his head right now. Must be the fever, or maybe it's from digging the same ditch over and over again for two days."

* * *

Coming on duty at midnight, Tim Fitch frowned at the semiconscious man who lay restless on the floor of the cell. Looked to him like Barkley was flirting with death once again. He was pale and shivering and struggling to breathe. When he wasn't coughing Tim could hear his wheezing from out in the hallway. The evening shift guards had been trying to get some water into him with little success.

"Well, he doesn't look good."

The young guard coming off duty agreed. "That's what I thought. He kept talking to someone named Jimmy, and then yelling at someone who was dead. Fighting us enough we couldn't do much with him."

"He's burning up. Where's the doctor?"

"He's out of town for the night, they don't know when he'll get back, maybe tomorrow sometime?"

"Damn. Get me some towels and water, I'll see if I can cool 'im off a little in the meantime. Tell 'em out at the gate we need the doc just as soon as he gets here."

Deputy Marshal Ramos appeared in the doorway, the anger in his voice tightly controlled. "What is this inmate doing in solitary? Does his attorney know that's he's been locked up in here?" He pushed into the room and then stopped, shocked by Heath's condition. He turned to Tim, recognizing him from the last time they had to come extract this boy from the prison. "What is going on? Have you called the doctor?" Not waiting for an answer, he knelt by the mattress and began unbuttoning Heath's shirt, feeling the heat coming off his skin.

"We don't have a doctor. He's out of town, might be back in the morning, but we don't know for sure." Tim was feeling more alarmed by the minute.

Ramos sat back on his heels, thinking. "There's another doctor in town I can get here within the hour, long as the crew at the gate doesn't give me any pushback." He looked at Tim. "Who's on gate this shift? Someone Risley owns?"

"No. They don't like the graveyard shifts. Should be Morris on until 4 AM, he won't give you trouble."

Ramos got to his feet. "I should be back quickly."

Heath gasped and started coughing again. He moaned in pain and curled up on his side. Tim knelt by the mattress with a bucket and some rags, looking worried. "We'll be waiting for you."

Tim turned his attention back to Heath. He rolled him onto his back again and finished unbuttoning the prison uniform shirt, pushing it aside so he could sponge some water onto his chest and neck. He went out to the hallway and entryway and propped open all the doors to get some air circulating. He figured prevention of his prisoner's escape wasn't the highest priority at the moment. Then he returned to the cell, knelt down, and pulled Heath to sit up against him, so he could get the heavy shirt off and get some water on his back. The welts from the shift captain's rod were red and oozing, and Heath stiffened and tried to push away as Tim sponged his back. The thought crossed Tim's mind that the officer was a far more deserving target for that flying ax blade than the rattlesnake ever was. Yes, he was pretty sure, much more deserving.

Tim propped Heath up on some blankets, and got him to drink some water. He wrapped a clean splint around his swollen left arm. Heath seemed to be cooling off a bit, maybe even was coming around, though his breathing still sounded terrible. Tim dipped and wrung out another cloth, and thought some more about the rattlesnake and the guard officer, who, from what Tim had heard, had been beating Heath mercilessly with a rod and threatening to assault his girlfriend. Tim was pretty sure in that situation, he himself would have thrown the ax at the man, not the rattlesnake. He thought most people would, actually. The he remembered what Heath had told him the night he came in, about how he chose not to kill Risley, and waited for the marshals to arrive. The dead rattlesnake made that story a lot more believable now.


	89. Chapter 89

_Nevada State Prison, 1:00 A.M., August, 1874_

The open doors of the cell block allowed a cooling night breeze to move through the small building. Tim supported Heath's shoulders as he labored through another bout of coughing. He handed Heath the canteen, who drank the cool water gratefully. Heath nodded his thanks to the guard as he handed it back. Then he fell back on the mattress, drained.

"Boy howdy, that hurts. I feel like I'm coughing out my insides." Heath felt somewhat clear-headed at the moment, but he could feel chills starting up again, and he was beyond exhausted. His head was pounding and it seemed even moving his eyeballs was painful.

"Ramos was here. Do you remember?" Heath shook his head. "He went into town to get a doctor. Once they get back here we'll move you over to the medical block, I think." Tim looked over his shoulder as he heard a noise outside. "Be right back. I've got the doors open. Don't want any raccoons thinking they can move in." He disappeared into the hallway.

Heath lay back and looked at the ceiling, trying to piece together the past day and what it meant. It was pretty clear there had been a plan for him to be caught with contraband – Risley had said he wanted to make Heath's legal situation as bad as possible. He remembered Mickey's warning to stand down, warning him so urgently, in fact, that it seemed at the end that Mickey was preparing to physically stop Heath from attacking the officer if he had to. So Risley's plan really was to goad Heath into attacking the officer. Made sense – as it was, the weapon alone was going to create some problems for him. Would've been even worse if he had attacked the guard.

The officer was goading him. He was threatening Rivka. Heath sat up, worried, staring at the wall. Was that all it was, just talk, to get him to step out of line? Either way, someone was watching Rivka and his family and reporting in to Risley, and he had to get a message to Jarrod to warn them.

"Tim?" He tried to call out to the guard, but his voice was almost nonexistent. He took a swallow of water, closed his eyes as he fought back another coughing jag, and carefully cleared his throat. "Tim!" That was a little better – but still no answer. A feeling of alarm began to worm around in his belly. Heath rolled forward onto his hands and knees, then, using the wall for support, tried slowly to stand up. Every muscle in his body screamed a protest, and he was immediately perspiring and dizzy. He aimed himself at the door and pushed off in that direction. He stayed on course for a step or two, then vertigo won out and sent him staggering into the wall. Back down on his knees, he thought maybe he'd do better to crawl to the door and see where Tim had gone. He was already ridiculously out of breath.

He reached the open portico of the cell. He heard steps, and a pair of boots appeared before him in the doorway, boots with which he was, unfortunately, too familiar. Breathing heavily, shaking with the effort it took just to make it across the room, Heath just stared at the man's feet dumbly and tried to understand what it meant that he was here, in his cell. He didn't have the strength to lift up his head, so finally he addressed himself to the boots. "Mickey. I don't – I don't get it. What are y -"

Heath fell silent as he felt the barrel of what he figured was a rifle press into the back of his head. "I'll explain later, Heath. I'm sorry. Lie down on the ground and put your hands behind your back."


	90. Chapter 90

_Nevada State Prison, 1:30 A.M., August, 1874_

The waxing crescent moon had long since set, and Mickey had extinguished all of the gas lights that would have illuminated their path along the west wall. Donnie met them in the shadows outside the cell block. Mickey had handcuffed Heath and dragged him outside and down the few steps into the yard. Heath, he could see, was fading fast. He hadn't much moved from where Mickey had dropped him, and his eyes, as they looked questioning up at him, were losing focus. "Gonna need your muscle after all," Mickey whispered to the big man. "He can't stay on his feet. You're gonna have to carry him, I think. But be gentle with him, lad, as best you can."

Donnie was surprisingly stealthy as they moved through the shadows, heading toward the northwest corner of the enclosed yard. Mickey led the way to a small, rarely used portico that had served primarily as a refuse gate when the prison was under construction. It opened to a deep, closed-ended ravine. Even if an able-bodied man had chosen to leave the prison via this gate, he would face a challenge climbing out at the other end. Mickey had been given a key to this gate. He intended to carry out his instructions, and prayed that his wife would be delivered back home by tomorrow.

He unlocked the gate. Beyond the deep stone portico, the outer walls of the prison abutted against the rising walls of the ravine. There was a shallow ledge directly ahead, and then a steep slope downward to the bottom of the ravine below. Donnie stepped out of the portico, looking to Mickey for instructions.

"We're just going to leave him here, Donnie. They'll find him – he can't get anywhere from here anyway."

Donnie nodded and lowered Heath to the ground near the edge of the slope. At the movement, Heath groaned and stirred, trying to sit up. He pulled against the handcuffs, then fell back, wheezing. Mickey knelt by him, two keys in his hand. Heath opened his eyes sluggishly and tried to focus on his face.

"Wh – what's this, Mickey - this my 'scape attempt? They gonna come find me in the mornin' and throw the – throw the book at me?" He doubled over coughing. He looked up at Mickey again, tears in his eyes. "Please tell me you didn't hurt Tim. Please."

Mickey tried to meet his gaze, but he was sick at heart. "No. Tim'll be OK. Nothing permanent."

"Why are you doing this? You warned me before. Why are you backing Risley's play now?" Heath was shivering again, but his head felt like it was on fire. He could feel his fever rising, his thoughts starting to bubble and drift off like steam from a boiling pot.

Mickey shook his head. He unlocked the handcuffs and slipped them in his pocket. He gestured to Donnie and stood to go.

His hands now free, Heath tried to get up, but lost his footing in the loose rubble at the top of the slope. He cried out in pain as he landed with his left arm under him and slid a few feet down the grade. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his arm free, sending more rocks rolling briskly down into the ravine. "Mickey…?" Heath looked nervously below him at the steep rocky slope. It wavered and moved before his eyes, and he looked back up toward the gate, fighting the dizziness. "Mickey, please don't –".

Mickey stopped, and spoke without turning. "I'm sorry. Risley has my wife and child. I have no choice. I swear, if I ever find a way to make this right, I will."

He went back through the gate, locking it behind him and surreptitiously dropping the key in the dirt. Even if Barkley could drag himself back up to the gate, he'd have to have an outrageous stroke of luck to find the key. Mickey slipped through the shadows back to his cell block. _And even if he did crawl back up, find the key, let himself back in – in about 15 minutes the alarm will be sounding. God forgive me, he's going to be found out of his cell with his guard knocked out and tied up in a closet. He's done for either way._


	91. Chapter 91

_Nevada State Prison, 2:00 A.M., August, 1874_

At the gate, Morris received Deputy Marshal Ramos back into the prison, accompanied by the Barkley lawyer, Chief Deputy Marshal Smith, and – a lady doctor? Morris had never seen such a thing. She had a valise full of very authentic looking tools – none of which appeared to be weapons, at least – and an unnervingly intense demeanor. Morris opened the gate for this unlikely group a few minutes after 2:00 AM. He sent his junior guard to escort them to the solitary confinement block.

As they approached, Ramos held up his hand. "Wait up," he ordered quietly. They paused. Smith moved to stand by him.

"Awful dark. Where's the lights?"

"That's what I was thinking. Something's not right."

"The door to the cell block is open."

" _Damn_. What the hell is _this_ , now?" Ramos turned to the guard. "You come with us. Jarrod, you stay with the doctor."

Jarrod nodded, moving protectively closer to Rivka's side, as the three men drew their weapons and approached the cell block. She looked at him, eyes wide. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Door shouldn't be open. Risley's people have been after Heath nonstop since he got here. I don't know, but I don't think it's anything good."

The men slipped inside the cell block. Within moments, they could see lights coming on. Ramos and Smith reappeared, supporting an unsteady man who was bleeding from his scalp. The prison guard left the cell block at a run, and alarm bells were soon ringing across the whole facility. Jarrod and Rivka rushed over.

Rivka quickly set about assessing Tim, who was trying to lift his head. He looked confusedly around him as the alarm bells clamored. "Wh' happening…? There a fire..?"

"Lie still," she ordered, checking his neck and body quickly for any other major injuries. She pressed a bandage against his scalp to staunch the bleeding. She looked up at Smith, who was scanning the prison yard, frowning. "Marshal? Where is Heath?"

"I don't know."

Jarrod knelt down next to Rivka, looked at the side of her face as she concentrated on Tim. "Rivka, can I help at all?" She shook her head. "Whatever I can do," he said, quietly. "I can't imagine what this is like for you right now. It can be overwhelming enough to see someone you love after four years even under normal circumstances. But this – and trying to jump in and be the doctor at the same time –"

She met his gaze. "It's not easy for any of us. He's your brother, Jarrod, _and_ your client. And right now we don't even know where he is. But when we find him, I'm going to do what I need to do to take care of him. My feelings," she stopped, trying to collect herself. "My feelings are going to have to wait." She couldn't completely hold back the tears standing in her eyes. She replayed in her mind Ramos' description, not to mention the frank fear he couldn't quite hide, as he told them how he found Heath.

Pneumonia. The disease Sir William Osler had described as 'the captain of the men of death'.

"I wish I had my mother here. She's still the best doctor I know." Rivka didn't have on hand yet all the supplies she needed, but she had given Victoria detailed instructions.

"My mother is sending wires to your family and ours right now to let them know what's happening. And then I believe she will be rousting a federal judge, the D.A., and the warden out of bed to put an end to this."

" _Im yirtzeh haShem_ \- from your mouth to God's ear, Jarrod. And if anyone can accomplish all that at two in the morning, it will be your mother."

* * *

Lying in the dark, Heath had tried to get himself back up to the top of the slope, but each time he moved, he only succeeded in sliding further down. He finally accepted that he was stuck where he was, until, of course, he was captured here "escaping." He dropped his head and rested it on his arm, his breathing fast and shallow. As he drifted off, he sent up a wish that the guards would hurry up and find him, before he had some terrible coughing fit that would drop him into the bottom of the ravine.

Far, far away, Heath could hear voices and the metal clanging of an iron gate.

"Get me a rope! We go climbing down there to get him, and we'll all slide down to the bottom."

Heath felt hands grabbing his arms, his clothes. Felt a rope passed around his chest, and the painful scraping of the stony ground as they hauled him back up to level ground. He was roughly pushed over onto his back, and he groaned, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the torchlight.

"Goddamn troublemaker," a low voice complained. "You see what he did to Tim, who was trying to take care of him?"

Heath shook his head, tried to speak. "No. I - I didn't -" He could barely hear himself. He swallowed, tried again. "Tim - is Tim alright…?"

"Whadda you care, mutt. You left him for dead." Heath let his head fall back and closed his eyes. No point fighting it right now. And he was just too tired.

The guards put him on a stretcher and brought him back inside the walls.


	92. Chapter 92

_Nevada State Prison, 2:45 AM, August, 1874_

Once the word came back from the search party that the escaped inmate had been found and secured, Jarrod hurried back to town, where he could bring word to Victoria and collect what he needed to complete his legal assault on this God-awful place, and bring an end to the war that was being waged upon his youngest brother. The marshals escorted Rivka to the medical block, where she could set up and prepare for her patient's arrival. She was pleasantly surprised by the available supplies and general cleanliness of the work area, with abundant fresh running water and a stove for boiling and sterilizing instruments. Some basic pharmaceuticals were available as well, but she still needed the oxygen generator and the caffeine tincture Victoria would bring her from the apothecary in town. She found herself grateful for the ways in which the Barkley money could help to remove some obstacles, such as coaxing a sleepy pharmacist out of bed in the middle of the night.

She heard voices approaching, and she steeled herself to be dispassionate. She focused ferociously on the clinical tasks at hand. This was a critical situation, and she could not afford to let her emotions get in the way. There would be time for that later. But she was afraid, and oh, how she wished her mother was at her side. She pulled her dark hair back into a single thick braid. She took a deep breath, set her jaw, and washed her hands one more time. Then she turned to receive her patient.

The first thing she noticed was the hostility of the officers toward their captive. Heath appeared unconscious, but they had shackled his wrists and his ankles, and showed no intent to remove them once they dumped him off the stretcher onto the exam table. He moaned softly, and tried to roll away from the pain in his back, but they shoved him back down with a few choice epithets regarding his parentage.

"Gentlemen," she said firmly, her voice tightly controlled. "I'll need these chains off in order to do my job."

"Can't do that, Miss, not completely, but I can shackle 'im to the bed instead."

"That's 'Doctor', not 'Miss', officer, and yes, that would be better."

He raised his eyebrows. "OK, M – uh, Doctor." He removed the leg irons, and cuffed each wrist to the frame of the bed. "Now, Doctor, you be careful. He gave Tim a good whack in the head before he run off. Don't you trust him."

"Thank you officer. I will be careful, and I have the marshals here to help." She was clenching her teeth. She just wanted them _gone_ , out of her sight, before she began bludgeoning them herself with whatever heavy object came to hand.

Smith was following everything closely. "No worries, boys," he said gruffly. "We'll stay right by the doctor here." He opened the door and saw them out. He came back to stand by Rivka. "Easy, Doc," he said quietly. "Don't let those hound dogs get under your skin. They don't know nothin' but what they're fed. You just do what you know how to do."

She nodded, and now let herself look at her patient. _Oh, God, Mama, I don't know if I can do this._ It was excruciating to see this man that she loved, the face and hands she knew so well and had missed so much, now lying here before her in the clutching embrace of jealous Death.

 _Oh, Death._ _I know you._ _You've tried to take him from me before. Yes, I remember you. I was a child then. I'm not a child anymore, and you're not going to take him from me now._

Smith saw her shoulders straighten, and she took up her stethoscope and stepped to the head of the table. "Marshal, bring that basin over. You start getting him cleaned up while I examine him and get an idea of what we're dealing with here."


	93. Chapter 93

_Carson City, 4:00 A.M., August, 1874_

Attorney General Luther A. Buckner was a southern gentleman, the youngest son of a distinguished Kentucky family that boasted several prominent jurists and legislators in each generation since the Revolutionary War. He had come out west to carve out his place in his family's history, and was elected as the 3rd Attorney General of the State of Nevada only one year after being admitted to the Nevada Bar. He had been successful and hard-working. His failure to prosecute Adam Risley the previous year had been his only significant setback to date, and now, in his third year as AG, he was determined to correct that mark on his record.

Buckner was meticulous with his grooming and appearance, and he did not take well to being called out in the wee hours of the morning to attend an impromptu legal meeting. Mrs. Barkley did have a formidable reputation herself, however, and she was nothing if not articulate and persuasive, even as he took into account that he was also prosecuting her son. She gave him good reason to believe that there were vast political and prosecutorial benefits to be reaped if he acted promptly, though she was willing to give him time to get his appearance in order. She was a woman who understood that such things – proper grooming and dress - can help one think more clearly and act more effectively.

Judge Bentley was more easily persuaded. He was an old school jurist who had been around a while, and probably was still almost as comfortable sleeping on the trail as he was in a town apartment. Further, he had been wrangling this messy Barkley case all summer. The prospect of closure was too attractive to stay in bed.

Warden Hyman hadn't left his offices at the prison – he had been pacing and fretting and composing addenda to his biennial report since he had laid eyes on that dead rattlesnake yesterday. He had a bad, bad feeling about what Jarrod Barkley was going to drop on his desk.

Adam Risley's attorney, Lee Thatcher, didn't so much mind the pre-dawn wake up as he did the fact that he felt quite unprepared. His client had been very uncooperative as he constructed his defense. Risley's only clear instruction to his attorney was to deny the charges and plead innocent, but he had no guidance on how to answer the available evidence against him, other than the stories that had been routed to the newspapers. Thatcher himself was not an imaginative or creative man, and Risley had used him over the years primarily to manage paperwork. So at 3:30 A.M., he was simply ordered by Judge Bentley to present himself immediately to the warden's office for this meeting. That order was delivered happily - but with a completely professional demeanor - by Deputy Marshall Roberts, who was looking forward to seeing all their investigative work collected into a neat package and then smashed down on Risley's head. Thatcher pulled on his cleanest suit, picked up his empty briefcase for show, and headed out to the prison.

* * *

Rivka brought another pot of boiling water to the bedside. She threw a few bay leaves into the water, and then placed the cover with the connected tubing over top. She laid the other end of the tubing by Heath's face, where the steam and bay leaves could help ease some of the congestion in his lungs. They had him uncovered to the waist, as his fever had risen alarmingly. The bouts of coughing seemed just as bad, just as painful, but now instead of the dry, barking cough, he was bringing up phlegm that she could hear crackling through her stethoscope as he wheezed. She sponged him down, and spooned sips of broth and a tea made from ginger and willow bark between his lips.

He hadn't come around since the guards has hauled him in, though he was intermittently restless and delirious. She found herself remembering the days just after Canby had liberated the camp. Heath told her it helped to hear her voice, and so as she worked she would bend close to his ear and talk to him. What she said didn't seem to matter much – it seemed to calm him. She would tell him what she was doing to help him recover, or she would tell him stories of what she saw as she travelled back from Pennsylvania, or she would tell him she loved him and that she was waiting for him to come back to her.

While he slept – or was unconscious – she reviewed the state of his other injuries. His left arm was swollen and appeared to have been broken and displaced again. After demanding the prison guard remove the shackle from that arm, she instructed Ramos to hold Heath down in case he fought. "I can't give him any morphine yet. His lungs are already too compromised. The narcotic would shut down his drive to keep breathing, and he would just slip away." With Smith's help, she placed steady traction on the arm until the bones moved into position, and then casted it in proper alignment. Heath cried out wordlessly, arching off the bed and trying to pull away. Rivka bit her lip and teared up, but she kept her eyes resolutely on her task, keeping the fracture aligned until the plaster had hardened to hold it in place.

She was fuming as she catalogued the other welts and lacerations he had collected. She prepared a salve of honey, turmeric, and lavender oil, which she applied to the wounds on his back and arms, while Smith helped her roll him to one side or the other. Still, she was worried about his breathing. He was working so hard, and she knew he couldn't keep it up for long. He was malnourished, dehydrated, febrile, and his muscles were exhausted. She looked again out the window. "Do you think Victoria will get here soon?"

Smith glanced at his pocket watch. "Should be any minute. I see some activity down there by the gate."

* * *

Jarrod entered the anteroom of the prison administration building carrying a large ledger and a stack of affidavits. He held the door open for Victoria, who carried a parcel from the pharmacy and was wheeling an odd apparatus with coiled tubing. She turned to Morris. "Officer, I need to get this equipment to your medical wing immediately. Dr. Levi needs it."

Morris had long since given up on understanding what was happening with this whole Barkley affair. What with judges and fine elegant ladies arriving at four in the morning, bringing strange contraptions ordered by girl doctors – he gave up. Maybe once he was back on day shift he'd be thinking clearer and it would all make sense. He waved her through.

Jarrod spoke to Roberts. "Why don't you escort my mother over to the medical block, and tell Marshal Smith we should be getting started in a few minutes?" Roberts nodded pleasantly and offered to push the oxygenator for Mrs. Barkley as they walked away. Jarrod wanted badly to go with them to see how Heath was doing, but he knew his task right now was here, in the warden's office.

* * *

Rivka flew to the door when Victoria arrived. "I'm so glad you're here. You didn't have any trouble getting anything?"

"No, dear, no trouble at all." She handed her the packet and walked to the bedside, taking in the sight of her desperately ill son. Her heart ached, as much with desire for vengeance as with sadness. She gently stroked his arm. "How is he?"

"Very high fever. He hasn't really woken at all. I'm concerned about his breathing – there seems to be a great deal of swelling and inflammation in his lungs, and he's working far too hard to breathe. What you've brought I think will help enormously."

She began to set up the oxygenator at the bedside, cranking a handle on the side to activate a fan that would pull room air in through the inner cylinder and then out the length of tubing. "I hope the reactant inside has been refreshed recently," she muttered to herself. Once the fan was humming, she brought the tubing up by her patient's face, positioning it so it would blow gently across his nose and mouth. She directed Victoria to refresh the boiling water with the bay leaves, and then set about measuring out a dose of the caffeine tincture. "This isn't going to taste very good," she commented. "Good thing he won't remember."

"What is that for?" Victoria asked.

"Caffeine, it's the compound in coffee that wakes you up and makes your heart race. It also seems to open up the breathing passages in the lungs. He has so much swelling and inflammation in there now, parts of his lungs are closing off as he breathes. That's one reason why he's breathing so fast, working so hard to get the air in and out. This should make it easier. The oxygenator increases the amount of oxygen in the air he's breathing. He's not been getting enough because of the pneumonia. You see his color is already looking better."

Victoria agreed, there was a bit of normal color to his cheeks now. The gray cast around his eyes and lips had faded. Rivka brought the cup of medicine to the bedside, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "Good thing it's only a tablespoon at a time. When he's eating and drinking, if he still needs it, we can dilute it in something, like a good strong shot of whiskey. Sound good, Heath? Sorry, love, here goes."

She nodded to Smith to prop him up a bit, and she poured the bitter liquid a bit at a time into his mouth. He grimaced, but swallowed. He took a few deep breaths, then was racked by another long stretch of coughing as Smith lowered him gently down to the bed. Rivka held a cloth to his mouth, noting the thick rust-colored phlegm he was bringing up. _Lobar pneumonia,_ she thought. _If I can just get him through these first days, he should be able to beat it, if he's not too weak from what he's been through. If..._ She supported him as he rolled to the side with a sob of pain, his eyes tearing. Holding him in that position, she listened to his back with her stethoscope, and moved the oxygen and steam tubing back by his face.

She looked up at Smith and Victoria. "Once this medicine starts to work, I'm hoping he'll be able to start coughing effectively and start getting rid of the congestion in his lungs. We can help him do that if we keep repositioning him so the lungs can drain. Sometimes it even helps to thump on the chest to move the phlegm out, but I think he's taken quite enough pounding this summer, don't you?"

They both started to answer in the affirmative, but were interrupted. "I gotta agree with – with that -" came Heath's hoarse whisper. His eyes were still closed, and he was still breathing hard, but she could feel he was cooler and his pulse had slowed just a bit. "Rivka, I know I'm dreaming you, darlin' – but what a nice dream - I miss you so much –" His voice trailed off and he lay quiet.

She wiped a tear from her eye and laid her hand on his cheek. "I miss you too, love," she whispered.

* * *

The men had assembled in the warden's office. Jarrod nodded to Smith as he came in and gave Jarrod a quick update on Heath. Then they all turned to the discussion at hand. Judge Bentley spoke first.

"Marshal Smith, you're representing law enforcement and public safety here, so I believe your information should come first."

"Thank you, Judge. Warden, this is a list of prison personnel, including most of your senior guards, against whom I have credible sworn statements and financial documentation indicating that they have been regularly paid by Adam Risley since his incarceration here. We have warrants for arrest for each of the men on this list, three of whom are on duty right now, and nine of whom, I believe, should be showing up for work in about an hour and a half. I recommend that we arrest all twelve together at change of shift, to avoid any having advance warning." Hyman looked dully at the list before him, and nodded his agreement. Smith continued, "I've also learned through some sources that Mr. Risley has resorted to ordering a kidnapping in order to coerce cooperation from an inmate. We are still working to identify who carried that out and where so we can retrieve the hostage."

"Marshal Smith, I understand you also have some updates on your witnesses for the prosecution."

"Yes, your honor, in addition to Mr. Peterson, whose statement you've reviewed, I also now have sworn corroboration of the Barkleys' statement from Jake Moreno, Evan Williams, Dr. Hector Logan, Chester Harris, and Seth McGowan, as regards the claim of false arrest and assault with intent to kill."

"Mr. Thatcher, your response?"

"My client," he responded reluctantly, "pleads not guilty, your honor."

"Any other comment?"

"Uh, no, your Honor."

Buckner raised his eyebrows, and smiled slightly, an eager, combative light in his eyes.

"Mr. Barkley, your input?"

"I am certain that Mr. Buckner will secure a broad, inclusive conviction of corruption, kidnapping, murder, slaving, assault, perjury, and fraud against Mr. Risley, with the evidence at hand. My client was falsely incarcerated and tortured by Mr. Risley, but escaped with the help of Mr. Peterson. Mr. Risley attacked my brother Nick and I at Leviathan Canyon, and ordered our execution, which order Sheriff Barnes and his gunmen were about to carry out, when they were killed by my brother Heath. Killed from ambush, yes, but killed only because they were armed and about to shoot Nick and me in cold blood. Heath did _not_ kill the unarmed Mr. Risley, though he easily could have. Heath has instructed me to plead no contest to the court's decision on this matter. He takes full responsibility for the lethal decisions he made in that situation to save our lives, and leaves it to the wisdom of the court to decide if it was a justifiable homicide. That, I expect, will be decided by the grand jury in two weeks' time, should Mr. Buckner choose to proceed with the current charges of manslaughter.

"As regards these recent accusations – of holding a contraband weapon, assaulting a guard and attempting escape – I am certain that these are manufactured incidents arising from Risley's ongoing vendetta against my brother. I expect as soon as the arrest warrants are acted upon, and it becomes known that Risley's payoff money has been cut off, we will find ample testimony to support that belief. In the interim, Warden, my brother Heath is yet again -" Here Jarrod had to take a moment to get control of his voice. "My brother is yet again fighting for his life because of injuries and abuse he has sustained in YOUR custody, and under YOUR watch. I demand to know what you intend to do to make this right."

"Mr. Barkley," Warden Hyman said, looking resolutely at his desktop. "I am horrified by the extent of corruption you have brought to light at this facility, and I intend to offer my resignation to the Governor. I would, however, suggest that I defer that resignation until such time as this facility can be reconstituted with staff who are not tainted by this incident and can be trusted. I will defer to Judge Bentley if he feels it would be prudent, as at Wellington, to place this facility under direction of the federal marshals until that time. I offer my full cooperation to Marshal Smith and his deputies."

* * *

 _Nevada State Prison, 7:00 AM, August, 1874_

Adam Risley sat in his usual seat and sipped his coffee, awaiting a report from Mickey. Something was making him a little uneasy – there was a change in the staffing pattern, and he saw several lead posts being held by junior guards this morning, many of them guards who had already been on duty overnight. In fact, he didn't see any of his employees among the guard today.

As he was pondering this, Mickey came to sit beside him.

"Very nicely done last night, Lieutenant."

"All went pretty easy. Barkley couldn't put up much of a fight anyway."

"And his guard in solitary?"

"I gave him a good bump on the head. He doesn't remember anything, so as far as he knows, it was Barkley who hit him."

"Would have been better if you had killed him, as I instructed you to do. Then our business would be concluded."

"Where is my wife?"

"As I said, it would have been better if you had killed Mr. Fitch, as I instructed you to."

"Are you refusing to let my wife go, Mr. Risley?"

"Yes. For the time being. You seem to be having trouble carrying out my orders. You need more practice."

Mickey moved as if to stand, but then in a blur of motion, he wrapped a garrote around Risley's neck and pulled it just tight enough to immobilize him. He spoke quietly into Risley's ear.

"Where is my wife?"

"You're a dead man, Mickey," Risley hissed.

Deputy Marshal Ramos stepped out from the corner of the mess hall, where he had been listening to the conversation between the two men. "Mickey, I heard what I needed to hear. Let him go."

"No. He hasn't told me where she is. I need to know she's safe. I'm not letting him go until I know she's safe." Mickey slowly tightened the garrote as Risley wheezed, flushed, and then grew purple, pawing uselessly at the cord that was vanishing into the flesh of his neck. Mickey eased the pressure slightly. He whispered to Risley. "I can keep this up all day, _Captain_. Choke you, bring you back. Choke you, bring you back. All day, as long as you want, until I know my wife is safe." He pulled back on the cinch. "Look around you, Captain. Do you see any friendly faces? Do you?"

Ramos made no move to restrain Mickey. Roberts walked up, watching the proceedings with interest. "He's right, Risley. There's no friendly faces here. There're none out there either. The money's been cut off. One of your boys in here beat up Cho's grandpa – the cook, remember? Cho didn't like that. His grandpa is everything to him. So Cho rolled you over. We have his ledger. Yep, no more friendly faces, Risely."

"Where – is – my – wife." Each word punctuated by a ratcheting of the garrote.

"OK –" Risely squeaked, his eyes starting to roll wildly in his head.

"Write it down."

Roberts snatched up the paper and ran with it for the gate.

"Let him go, Mickey," Ramos said again, speaking with no particular forcefulness. He still made no move to interfere.

"No. When I know she's safe. When one of your men can tell me she's safe." Mickey looked down at Risley. "A few other loose ends I can take care of, deputy. I acquired that shiv that was found on Barkley, on Risley's orders. I gave it to Donnie, who planted it on him right before the guards searched him. Donnie'll confirm that. On Risley's orders, otherwise he'd have my pregnant wife killed. But that wasn't good enough. So he told me to kill Tim Fitch, fake Barkley's escape and leave him outside the refuse gate. I can tell you where I left the key to the gate, if you need any other proof."

"I appreciate that, Mickey. Once we know your wife's safe, and you're done strangling Mr. Risley here, I'd like you to come share your information with the Attorney General."

* * *

 _A medical history note in **appreciative** response to a reviewer's comment: Yes, the clinical use of oxygen in frontier 1874 is a stretch, for a few reasons. There was a device available and in clinical use in the late 1860's, Dr. A. H. Smith's Apparatus for Generating Oxygen at the Bedside, which was accepted as a scientifically valid method to chemically generate oxygen using chlorate of potash mixture as the elemental source. (Ref. Oxygen Gas as a Remedy in Disease, Andrew H. Smith MD, New York: Appleton  & Co., 1870. The pamphlet won the prize essay of the Alumni Association of the College of Physicians and Surgeons, NY (i.e. Columbia University). Would a brand new graduate of medical school know or have been trained to use supplemental oxygen in 1874? (Maybe, given her connections to European-trained physicians, who were 10-15 years ahead of the US in this area, as far as I can see.) Would Carson City have such an apparatus available? (Probably not.) I was too impatient to look up how the bedside device was run, so I was guessing a mechanically wound fan driving room air over chemical reagents. On investigating further, though, it appears that the chemical reaction was initiated using a gas burner, and the oxygen gas was collected in bottles connected by tubing. So I'l have to adjust those details. _


	94. chapter 94

_Nevada State Prison, August, 1874_

A pair of coyotes howled a plaintive duet to the night sky. Their mournful cries mingled with the dusty smell of sage and Pinon pine that wafted through the open windows of the cell block. Rivka leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, and breathed it in. _So far from Philadelphia._ It was the first time since her precipitous departure from Pennsylvania that she had taken a moment to feel where she was, to sense that she was back home in the West. She was a good bit north of the New Mexico home she remembered, true, but the western desert and mountains spoke to her and welcomed her back.

Over the past week, she had been wholly preoccupied with her worry for Heath and the logistics of arriving at Carson City as quickly as possible. En route, she would scour every available newspaper for updated information. The story was appearing in papers to the East as an entertaining scandal, involving as it did an illegitimate son of a wealthy family, gunfights, and murder in the uncivilized West. Rivka would search past the gleefully shocked speculation of the writers, trying desperately to divine the truth of his situation.

That truth, she discovered, was about as bad as she could have imagined, and Rivka could imagine a great deal for a young woman of 21. Persecution, flight, and episodes of pogrom and massacre were a fact of life for the Jews of Europe, even for a relatively well-established family such as hers. And then, of course, there was Carterson. She could imagine too well what Heath had been through.

Rivka sighed and rubbed her eyes, then sat forward to look at the ledger on the desk in front of her. The pages were filled with entries in her precise, flowing handwriting, as she had hourly recorded her observations and treatment. Those hours had accumulated now to a span of almost three and a half days, during which time Rivka had attended almost continuously to Heath, sleeping in short naps in the medical block during those times when he seemed to be resting quietly. She had one of the marshals on duty around the clock, and usually Jarrod or Victoria as well. Victoria was an able assistant with Rivka's medical interventions, applying salve, replenishing the vapor pot and oxygen generator, spooning fluids into his mouth a few ounces at a time, brushing his teeth. Rivka would enlist the men to help with moving Heath and bathing him, partly in deference to his modesty, but he was never yet fully lucid, and if one of the men was tending to him when his temperature was rising, she found that Heath could become restless, fearful, even combative. This invariably led to paroxysms of coughing, pain, and dyspnea. Modesty fell by the wayside, as the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand always seemed to help at those times, and she would hold him and talk to him until he was calm, and breathing more easily.

At this hour, Deputy Marshall Roberts was tilted back in a chair in the corner, grinding a ginger root into powder with a sandstone mortar and pestle she had found in a cabinet. Jarrod had left to escort Victoria back to the hotel for the night, and would return later. Rivka re-read her latest entry into the ledger.

 _1100 PM: Temp. 104.6 HR 126, pulse thready. RR 34, Skin very warm, dry, poor turgor. No cyanosis. Input past 4 hrs 500 ml (broth, milk, tea). Output past 4 hrs est. 120 ml. Wheezing improved, but exam indic. prob. lung consolidation vs. pleural effusion on left, rales throughout on right._

The words blurred and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to muffle a sudden sob. Tears spilled silently from her eyes. Heath was steadily getting worse. Her notes refused to lie to her or offer comfort. Every three to four hour cycle of fever moved inexorably in the wrong direction. The trough never went below 101.5, and each peak was higher. His heart rate and respiratory rate continued to rise.

The usual course of lobar pneumonia was a race between overwhelming infection and the patient's defenses. In young healthy patients, mortality with this severity of infection was a little over 50 percent. Those who survived would characteristically reach a point of crisis four to nine days into the course of the acute infection, marked by a precipitous drop in temperature, profuse sweating, and resolution of toxic symptoms. Convalescence over the following one to two weeks was then expected, unless a complication occurred. Patients who did not reach this crisis point typically did not survive. Heath was young, but he couldn't be said to be healthy at the onset of this illness. By her estimate, he was well into day five of infection.

She heard him stir and cough. Roberts and she had positioned him this time on his right side, hoping this would help to drain out some of the left lung, though this also tended to worsen the pain with coughing. At the bedside, she sat beside him, wringing out a rag soaked in lavender water that she would use to cool him off. He shivered as his temperature continued to rise, and a fit of coughing began in earnest.

 _"Welcome home, Barkley. So glad to see you back where you belong."_

Rivka saw Heath's brow furrow, his eyes tearing with pain. He seemed to want to curl up to protect himself, pulling his arms away from her touch. His voice was a harsh whisper full of terror. "No. No - I won't – won't go in there–"

"Deputy?" she called softly. "Not sure yet, but I might need your help."

"Yes, Ma'am."

 _He was surrounded by darkness and pain and hot metal, the walls closing in on him, burning his skin. The very air he breathed scorched his lungs. He heard a laugh, and footsteps in sand and gravel as Risley slowly circled the iron box._

 _"It looks like my game is finished out here, Barkley. Maybe they'll hang me. But you won't get to see it." Laughter receding as he walked away. "Too bad no one has the key to get you out of there. I don't think they even know where you are."_

Heath tried to move, to call out, even hopeless as he felt. He was trapped. The pain was overwhelming and it was so difficult to breathe. Then all he could do was cough, seizing those moments in between to suck in the burning air that was keeping him alive. Slowly, the paroxysm passed. He was spent, exhausted, beyond fear. He had nothing left with which to struggle against the walls that had closed him in. The implacable iron box would win. _Maybe I will die in this box_ , he thought sadly, _but I'd sure feel better about it if someone who loves me was waiting with me._

"Please…" he managed, faintly. "Please stay with me."

"I'm right here by you, love," Rivka said by his ear. She knelt by the bed, looking into his face. His eyes opened, startlingly blue in the flush of fever. He stared at her in wonder, as if he was trying to take in every detail of her appearance.

"You're here…I'm not dreaming you?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, darlin'," he said, his voice already weakening. "Don't know what I did to deserve you, but I feel like the luckiest man in the world." He smiled, eyes closing.

"Heath?"

He roused again. "I'm not getting better, am I," he said, more of a statement than a question.

She hesitated. "Not yet, love."

He nodded. "I'm sorry." He looked at her then, love and sadness and some regret in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, darlin'. I'm trying…I feel like I'm losing…losing ground…" He licked his lips and tried to swallow. "but I won't quit tryin', I promise –" Another round of coughing overtook him, and he didn't speak after that.


	95. chapter 95

**_Sunday School Fistfight Follows Confrontation in Local Churchyard_**

 _Carson City,_ _NV_

 _August_ _27, 1874_

A _group of concerned citizens gathered to give voice to fears for public safety following church services yesterday, amid news that federal marshals wished to move forward with plans to transfer Mr. Heath Barkley - the Leviathan Canyon killer - to the Carson City Hospital. Mr. Barkley is currently incarcerated in the medical block of the state prison._

 _The_ _group of citizens met vocal opposition by church-goers sympathetic to the Barkley cause, and a vigorous debate ensued. All might have remained civilized, had not the debate led to a fistfight at the Sunday School among the children, the first punch reportedly thrown by the oldest daughter of our own blacksmith, Mr. Michael Peterson, known to be friendly with the Barkleys._

 _Once_ _the children were separated and disciplined, calm again prevailed at the church. A small group, however, proceeded on to the Carson City Hospital, throwing rocks through a few windows and threatening vigilante action if the inmate Heath Barkley is brought out of the prison. Deputy Chief Marshal John Smith told this reporter that under the circumstances, Mr. Barkley would remain in the NSP medical facility for the time being, as it would be safer for the patient, and in any case he had the best physician and medical facilities right where he was in the prison._

Rivka looked up from the paper at a gentle knock on the door. She saw an elderly Chinese man, dressed as a cook. She stood as he approached her with a small package in his hand.

"I am Cho. I work as cook here - I have been friends with Mr. Barkley - with Heath." He bowed cordially to her. "I also have some skills in healing - with herbs - it is a long family tradition. I brought you some tea I compounded to help with fever and lung congestion and inflammation. It is called Xie Bai San. It drains heat from the lungs, calms wheezing. Can be given as tea, four times a day."

She accepted the packet and bowed to him in return. "I have heard of this remedy. Thank you, Cho. He can use all the help he can get. Can you show me how much you use to brew the tea?"

Once she had a proper batch brewing on the stove, Cho bowed and left as quietly as he had come, promising to return the next day to check on his friend. Rivka brought a cup of the tea to the bedside table, letting it cool as she rested her own head down on the bed beside Heath. She closed her eyes, listening to the pattern of his breathing, glad that he was still with her, still hanging on. She took his hand in hers. His fingers closed gently around hers, though he did not appear to awaken.

Jarrod had been here with her during the night, but was called away to the prison gate a few minutes earlier. She felt herself dozing in the warmth of the summer morning. She squeezed Heath's hand again, gently, a few tears escaping from her eyes as she drifted to sleep.

"Rivkeleh?"

Her eyes flew open. "Mama?" She turned toward the door in disbelief, then flew from her seat into her mother's embrace. "Mama, you're here, how did you know where to find me? Is Papa here? Where are the boys? Mama, I've missed you so much, I'm so glad you're here, Heath is so sick -" Here her voice began to break, the rigid control she had maintained on her fears overcome by the relief of her mother's presence. She began to cry as her mother held her in her strong arms. "Mama, he's so sick. Pneumonia. It's going on six days now, he just keeps getting worse. I can show you, I wrote everything down, I don't know what else to do..."

Hadassah held her daughter out at arm's length and looked at her, her expression loving, her eyes serious and intense. "Rivkeleh. Shh. Let your mother look at you for a moment, I haven't seen you since we came to visit two years ago." She frowned. It was as she expected. "You are exhausted," she pronounced. "When was the last time you slept for longer than an hour or two?"

Rivka sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Four days, at least. But Mama, come look at -"

"OK, yes, let us look at our young man. We'll go over everything. But then you must get some rest." Hadassah could see immediately she would get nowhere with her daughter until they took care of Heath.

Rivka nodded. "Maybe I can, now that you're here -" Rivka brought her mother to the bedside and quickly summarized the course of the past few days, as well as some description of what had occurred since the brothers were first imprisoned back in June. Victoria and Marshal Smith entered, but remained quiet in the doorway, listening. As she brought her mother up to date, Smith noticed that Rivka had shifted to a dispassionate, clinical mode of speech in which she had been trained. He suspected that aside from being an efficient way to communicate medical information, it was helping Rivka manage the intense emotions she must certainly be experiencing. He found it astonishing that such a young woman, in such an unusual and difficult situation, and still so new to her profession, could handle herself and her patient so well.

Hadassah was having very similar thoughts, though she looked upon Rivka with the eyes of a mother as well as a colleague. She was acutely aware of the many strong parallel currents of feeling within her: fear, for Heath's survival and her daughter's heart, should the outcome be fatal; pride, in her daughter's courage and wisdom and loyalty; rage, at the cruelty and violence that yet again threatened them all with loss and separation from loved ones.

Her physician's mind quickly took in all that Rivka had done for Heath, and she concurred with her clinical assessment. She borrowed Rivka's stethoscope, and knelt by the bed, listening to him breathe, gathering information with her eyes and ears and hands. Once she felt she had gotten a clear impression, she sat back and sighed, now allowing herself to look at him as the boy she loved like a son. "Oh, Heath," she said, softly, shaking her head. "What a terrible thing you've been through. I know you're tired. You feel like you won't be able to keep fighting as you have. But we're here with you, _motek_. We will help you. Stay with us who need you and love you."

Hadassah looked up at Victoria and Smith with a sad smile that acknowledged their shared connection, not of blood, but of choice and experience.

"How did you know to come here, Hadassah?" Victoria asked.

"We read the papers," she answered, unknowingly echoing her daughter's words. "We knew we needed to be here."

Then she turned to Rivka. "So no crisis, yet," she said gravely.

Rivka knelt by her at the bedside. "No," she answered, bleakly. "This is day six."

"It may take him a little longer. Malnutrition certainly plays a role. This tea of Cho's may also help reduce the inflammation in the meantime. I've seen it work well - there's a Chinese herbalist in San Diego who has compounded it for my patients. Don't despair, Rivkeleh. You have given him every help I can think of. We will remain by his side and take care of him, and I am sure he will fight his way through and back to us."

Rivka gave her mother a tearful but grateful smile. Victoria breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back and resting her head against Smith's chest as he stood behind her. He put an arm gently around her, feeling deeply grateful himself that these two doctors were here to take care of Heath. It was agonizing to watch the boy fight his way through this deadly illness after everything he'd been through, and especially now that there was some hope that he would be exonerated.

Smith was also pleasantly surprised that Victoria seemed to take comfort in his presence, seeking out some physical contact with him whenever they were together. He breathed in her distinctive perfume and told himself that perhaps the time would come when he could court this remarkable lady, once all was well with her son.

Hadassah now stood and put her hands on her hips. "Now, daughter, _you_ must get some sleep. I will watch our young cowboy. Your father is here, by the way, and your brothers, waiting impatiently to see you. Have pity on your father especially and go to see him before you go to rest - he has missed you so. Heath's other brother and sister are here as well - Nick and Audra. When we realized our train route to Sacramento was passing through Stockton, we wired ahead so we could travel together. We must get this young man recovered as soon as possible. The twins, now - they do want to see you, but, to be honest, it's Heath they _really_ miss."


	96. Chapter 96

_Nevada State Prison, August, 1874_

Voices murmured. They came and went, each time more distant, indistinct. Even the touch of hands that moved upon his skin was remote, far away from where he drifted in darkness. Mercifully, pain - and fear - had receded as well, becoming a storm front on the horizon, seen and heard, but not felt. He wondered if perhaps it was more accurate to say that it was _he_ who had receded, he who had retreated before the undiminished force of the weather. Passing through that storm front was not his only way out – there were other, easier options. But he knew it was his only way back.

 _"Too bad no one has the key to get you out of there. I don't think they even know where you are."_

 _They know where I am. And they are there waiting for me. But they don't have the key. They can't get me out. No one can._

This understanding came to him without panic or desperation, but with some sadness, and a wistful yearning for home.

* * *

Hadassah added her deliberate print to the notes Rivka had been keeping. The two women had settled into a rhythm of four-hour shifts. It had been roughly 24 hours since Hadassah had arrived to the prison, now day seven of the pneumonia.

 _11:30 AM Temp 105.2 HR 148 RR 42 pulse thready but regular. Intake/output declining. Unable to take anything but a few sips of tea for more than 3 hours, due to worsening dyspnea and vomiting. Cough is weaker, using supplem oxygen continuously. Unresponsive._

There was soft knock on the door. Marshal Smith rose to admit Cho, who carried a pot of aromatic liquid. " _Qian Jin Wei Jing Tang_ ", he murmured. "Need something better for the fever and the phlegm."

Jarrod raised his eyebrows at the glazed ceramic vessel that held the concoction. It appeared to have been a rather ordinary pot in its origins, white, with a traditional Chinese landscape design in cobalt blue. The pot had clearly been broken – nearly shattered - at some point in its history, and the fragments had been rejoined with a lacquer mixed with gold, transforming the brokenness into something beautiful, glittering, and unique. Hadassah and Smith followed his gaze, and Jarrod asked Cho how the pot had come to look like that.

"This pot - I brought it especially for Heath. He noticed it too, and we talked a long time about it. Heath asked why I chose this pot over the others for my medicines." Cho looked gravely at the young man who had been so kind and respectful to him. "This belonged to my mother. It was not valuable or special, but it was part of my childhood kitchen. When it fell and broke many years ago, I repaired it using an old Japanese technique I had been taught, called _kintsugi_. _Kintsugi_ is also a way of thinking about things that are broken. The injury cannot be undone. _Kintsugi_ instead honors the brokenness as part of the pot's history. The broken pot is not then something to discard, but instead becomes more precious than it was before, stronger in the places it's been broken. The broken becomes beautiful. We talked a long while about it."

Jarrod swallowed, feeling suddenly close to tears. He thought he knew why Heath would have been so drawn to the story of that teapot.

Hadassah nodded, meeting Cho's sad eyes as she brought the glittering pot to the bedside table. She sat by Heath and spooned some of the tea into his mouth, her expression somber. She was glad his whole family was near, though at the moment it was Jarrod keeping watch and assisting her as best he could. As a physician, she felt the weight of the responsibility to presage the course ahead, and to let the family know when it was time to say goodbye, if it seemed that Heath's path led inexorably away. She didn't yet think that moment had arrived, but she knew Death was here in the room, pacing, becoming impatient. "Heath, _motek_ , don't leave us just yet. I know you can fight this off." She touched the side of his face, his skin so dry and hot. "We are here for you. I know you can find your way back to us."

* * *

Lightening flickered far off, followed long after by a rumble of thunder. Here in this dim place where he lay, there was no rain or wind. There was no heat or cold, no pain or hunger or thirst, no love or loss. All of those things flashed and moved far away within the storm on the horizon. Fear had returned, though, curling around him like a snake seeking his warmth. He could not remain here. He had to move, choose a direction.

He was afraid of the thunder, unsure of his strength. He didn't want to suffer, but he wasn't afraid to die, really. He would have to lay his body down someday, now or later, in a grave, he hoped, he had dug himself. What terrified him was being broken. He was afraid he would fight his way back, only to be crushed by the demons in his head and the mess he seemed to have made of things. He was so tired. And he would rather be dead than live broken and trapped in someone else's hole in the ground.

Reaching for some strand of comfort or encouragement, Heath strained to hear those the distant voices, but their words could not reach him. He searched his mind for some marker to guide him through this trackless place, wishing hopelessly for some easier way home.

 _"Oh, if wishes were horses, Yankee boy…"_

But instead he found Linceul. The commander stood over him, slim and dark in his uniform, looking just as he did ten years ago. He was smiling gently at Heath, and he knelt by his side, reaching a hand to stroke his hair. Heath lay motionless, unable to pull away. He was frozen within the memory of pain, and the fear of pain, and the absolute, god-awful lack of control that Linceul had visited upon him. The horror that he had visited upon a fifteen-year-old boy.

 _"Yankee boy, just let go. Leave it all. You could be at peace. Your family could move on. You would never have to see me again."_

 _Run away from you? From **you**? _ Heath suddenly looked at Linceul, really _looked_ at him for the first time with eyes unclouded by the terror and helplessness his memory could so powerfully evoke. _Leave my life and my family, leave everything that fifteen-year-old fought for, just to get away from **you**?_

Linceul could not harm him anymore. He had no power anymore to touch him. There was no need to flee from him. Linceul was _empty_. He was an absence, not a presence.

Linceul had hurt him, badly, broken him into pieces he was still trying to retrieve and put back together. That kind of broken doesn't go away. But maybe, like Cho said, it can become something else, something strong, even beautiful.

 _I promised I wouldn't give up. And I sure as hell ain't gonna be chased off by a ghost._


	97. chapter 97

_Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the soul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last defiance of falsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can be inflicted by evil agents. It speaks the truth and it is just, generous, hospitable, temperate, scornful of petty calculations and scornful of being scorned._

 _Ralph_ _Waldo Emerson_

 _"Heroism"_

 _Nevada_ _State Prison, September, 1874_

A massive crack of thunder startled Rivka from her careful mixing of Cho's tea, and the cool downdraft of the approaching thunderstorm pressed in through the windows. John Smith stood to close the shutters.

"No, leave them open, Marshal. The fresh air will help."

He came to sit by the bed, looking as drawn and worried as any member of the family. Rivka looked on as Smith reached out to feel Heath's forehead, then gently took his right hand in his own, seeming to be lost in thought and feeling. It was hard for Rivka to imagine that this loving presence was the man that arrested Heath and delivered him here in chains, and the same man who carried him in his arms from the mud of the quarry.

Smith believed his heart would break if this boy did not survive. He was aware that the loss of his own son, at just this age, laid him open to grief. But he had come to respect, and now, yes, love this boy during this ordeal.

He knew too, he felt guilt at having twice delivered Heath to this deadly place despite his own concerns, though he remained unsure of what he could've done differently. He had underestimated the danger, clear-eyed as he thought he was. What he had seen of Heath's condition when he first took him into custody at Leviathan should have told him how bad it was going to be - Smith just didn't quite believe it. He failed to accurately assess the two monsters into whose hands he delivered this boy.

Heath had trusted him. That night in the quarry, when he regained consciousness in Smith's arms, Heath had clung to him and wept in a way Smith doubted Heath's family had ever seen. Heath was no stranger to extreme adversity, but he coped in large part by seeking positive action, ways to help himself and especially others. Even there, in that pit of hell in which he had been trapped, _even there_ , Heath still found a way to battle the monster. His tears, his hands gripping Smith's shirt like a drowning man, these spoke to Smith of just how beaten down and helpless Heath had felt at that moment, pushed beyond his endurance, and trapped beyond - this thought was painful - beyond any hope of rescue. _It should never, never have come to that,_ Smith thought for the hundredth time. Yet Heath continued to trust him, though Smith was not feeling deserving of that trust, not at all, not tonight, when this death watch was feeling like it was all his fault.

"It is not your fault, Marshal," Rivka said, standing behind him.

Smith looked up, surprised. Had he spoken aloud?

She smiled sadly. "Men can be monsters. Sometimes the worst ones are the ones who look the most proper and civilized on the surface. But Donovan, Risley - this is their fault. Do not waste your energy on condemning yourself."

"You're awfully smart for a being such a youngster."

"I've been saying that since she was about 3," Hadassah said, entering with Victoria. She went directly to the beside, and Smith stood to give her room.

"He feels cooler -"

"Yes, the temperature curve has come down, though not much change otherwise. I think the tea is helping him stay cooler, but his cough is so weak now -" Rivka's calm began to show cracks, and she turned back to the stove, not sure she could continue speaking.

There was another flash of lightning and a nearly simultaneous crack of thunder, and a downpour commenced, drumming on the shingled roof of the medical block.

 _Heath heard the storm arrive. It was as if he had crossed a vast trackless plain, flat, bone-dry, merciless. He had crossed it on faith, believing he would find life, and water, and something to help him keep going so he could finish the journey, because he was long past the point of no return. He was burning up, exhausted, dry and empty as a sun-bleached bone in the desert. But he heard the thunder and followed its voice._

 _The storm arrived, and the rain came down, soaking his skin, running down the face he tilted up to the sky, the breeze cooling his body, the wet gusty wind easing away some the gripping, toxic pain in his chest. He took something that almost felt like a deep breath. He sighed, softly, wishing he could drink the rain._

 _As if in response to his wish, there was a hand supporting his head, a cup of cool water at his lips. He tried to drink it all down, but he was shaking so badly it was hard to swallow. He fell back, shivering convulsively, his body dripping wet with what he was gradually coming to realize was sweat, not the deluge he could hear on the roof._

 _The roof. He opened his eyes sluggishly, looked at the roof, then the windows and walls. Stone and iron bars. So that hadn't changed. He closed his eyes again as the shaking intensified. He turned his attention back to breathing, which blessedly seemed to be getting easier and slightly less painful. Voices began to filter in and take on shape and meaning._

"Thank God." Rivka gripped her mother's hand, both of them looking tentatively joyful as they moved to the bedside. To Smith and Victoria, Heath looked as if he was dying, and they were unsure of why the two doctors seemed so pleased. As the thunderstorm had peaked overhead, Heath had suddenly become restless, began sweating profusely, and soon after was enveloped by a convulsive shaking of all of his muscles. He did seem to be breathing easier, and his color improved. The deeper breathing, however, soon led to wracking bouts of coughing as his body worked to expectorate everything he had been too weak to cough up before.

As his temperature came down, Victoria returned to her role of assistant, and the three women worked to dry Heath off and keep him from getting too chilled. He started to wake and respond, though he was drifting still in and out of reality.

Hadassah knelt by him during a lull in the shaking, rousing him gently to drink some more water. His eyes opened slightly and focused on her face. "Hadassah...?" he mouthed, barely making a sound. He looked so lost. "Where - where am I - is your family safe...? Are you ok...?"

She could see he was unanchored in time, her presence spinning him back to Carterson and kindling the fear she could see in his eyes. She leaned down close to him and rested her hand on his cheek. "We are all safe, _motek_. We are far, far from New Mexico, and Rivka and your mother Victoria and your whole family are here to look after you. All is well, Heath. All is well."

He searched Hadassah's face, trusting, the confusion and anxiety ebbing. He looked up at Victoria, who felt she might weep with relief at seeing those gentle blue eyes once again awake and aware. He saw Smith, and nodded to himself as some more of his where-when-why-what got sorted out in his head. And then Rivka came to his side and kissed his cheek, and he sighed. He put his good right arm around her, pulled her in close, and turning to bury his face in her dark hair, he closed his eyes with a smile.


	98. chapter 98

_Nevada State Prison, September,1874_

"There you go, you think that one's done?" Nick handed his brother a damp cloth for his face.

Heath sat leaning forward on a hard wooden chair by the writing desk, hands braced on his knees, his head hanging. He didn't answer right away. He swallowed a few times, then drew a slow, careful breath. Nick could see his hair was rimmed with perspiration. "Boy, howdy, coughing like that leaves me feeling like I'm 'bout 80 years old," he commented to the floor.

Nick snorted. "Well, you're so damn skinny still, you look like you're about 16."

Heath laughed. "You shoulda _seen_ me when I was 16, you wanna see skinny. This ain't nothin'. I'm a Goliath by comparison." He looked up as Jarrod came breezily in.

"Afternoon, brothers, I bring food, most of which I expect to be eaten by you, Heath."

"Thanks, Jarrod. I'll do my best."

Jarrod set about clearing the writing table and unpacking a meal that Victoria had carefully assembled for her sons. She had rightly assessed that Heath's mood and appetite seemed better when his brothers were there to eat with him and draw his mind back into life outside of his incarceration. They would tease, and argue, and discuss all manner of ranch business, and they would keep Heath connected with the soujourn of his friends and family here in Carson City.

"Things have become quite rambunctious at the Peterson place," Jarrod said, chuckling. "The Levis of course had to go over to visit Mike. He - and I'm not exaggerating - he burst into tears when he saw Hadassah for the first time. Hugged her and cried on her shoulder like a little boy."

"I know the feeling," Heath said, smiling.

"But then, when he saw the twins -" Jarrod began laughing outright.

"What? What's so funny?"

Jarrod shook his head. "What's funny is I have no idea what he thought was so funny. When he saw the twins, he started laughing so hard he was crying again. And he kept saying, 'oh, wait till Heath sees you two, Heath's gonna love this', but he wouldn't explain. The whole rest of the day, he'd just look at those boys and start laughing. You have any idea what was so funny?"

"Not a clue," Heath said, mystified.

"Well, in any case, the boys are whooping it up with Mike's brood. They also have become enamoured of the smithy, being the young builder/inventors that they are. All that metal working has their heads full of ideas."

"It's good something's caught their attention," Nick added, "anything so they're not mooning around Audra constantly. The moment they met her on the train ride here they became love-struck puppies, hanging on her every gesture. I'd have to shoo them out from underfoot. Audra, of course, thinks they're adorable." Nick stretched his legs out and grinned at Heath. "You're stuck with me for company tonight, boy. Audra and Rivka have discovered they can share a wardrobe, and have gone off to see what shopping there is in town. Mother and Madam Dr. Levi are doing something charitable together, and the Rabbi and Jarrod plan to drink Scotch and continue their discussions about... about.. what was it, Jarrod?"

"Talmudic Law, and why I should study it in order to be a truly well-rounded attorney."

"Right. That."

"And what's Smith up to?"

"He was called to Sacramento on some business. There's a rumour he's being promoted."

"He's deserving, all right," Heath said, though he felt a flicker of worry with his absence. "Wish I could see the twins," he said wistfully. "No kids allowed to visit. But maybe I'll get out of here before it's time for them to head back home." He glanced at Jarrod. He didn't want to get into a discussion about his legal situation right at the moment, but to say it was weighing on his mind was an understatement.

The grand jury panel had convened enough of a quorum to begin to make some decisions, though his hearing would not occur until more members were present. The panel had not budged on continuing Heath's incarceration pending a final verdict and sentencing, so here he remained.

Granted, he remained in the medical cell block, with access to better food and company now that Ramos was the acting XO for the prison. Cho also came regularly, bringing Heath herbal remedies to boost his recovery. But he was in a cell block just the same, and as the hearing date approached - and the hostile public sentiment persisted - his apprehension increased.

The facts of the case against Risley had become public, and as his trial date was determined, the editorial attitude toward the former warden was predictably one of anger at the betrayal of public trust, and a philosophical horror at what civilized men will do when corrupted by ill-gotten profits. Published opinions regarding the "Leviathan Killer" also continued to appear, and if it were possible, with even greater frequency and venom than before. Heath knew his family was doing their best to hide this from him, but it reached him in bits and pieces.

It was as if the extralegal judgement that had been passed upon Risley had somehow fallen upon Heath as well. Rather than vindicating him, it seemed he had become even more guilty in the court of public opinion, tainted by his entanglement with the corrupt official. In fact, it was suggested, this sort of corruption is an upward contamination, having its origins in the "criminality of men such as Mr. Barkley". Men of responsibility who take on the job of law enforcement and corrections are always at risk of being infected by this insidious moral decay. Risley would be convicted and punished, but men like Heath Barkley remain the _real_ threat to society.

Heath tried to put these worries aside as he sat with his brothers. He reminded himself that the grand jury panel was not made up of lay people but of legal professionals and public servants who should be able to consider the facts of his case.

Heath trusted Jarrod absolutely to represent him. He didn't really believe the maximum penalty (five counts of felony manslaughter and two counts of assault with intent to harm added up to a 44-year sentence in Nevada) would be imposed upon him, but he also didn't believe that he would be turned loose with a blessing and an apology from the grand jury panel. His hearing was scheduled to occur before Risley went to trial. Jarrod thought this was a disadvantage. He had argued eloquently - but in vain - on his behalf, seeking a postponement until after Risley was convicted, with Heath's release on bail in the interim. Jarrod had encountered a stone wall. Heath sensed - and he unfortunately tended to be right about such things - that the grand jury was going to want to make an example of him. He just hoped they wouldn't need to burn too much of him at the stake to make their point.

Jarrod was quite aware of Heath's growing anxiety, not to mention restlessness, the unfortunate by-product of his improving health. This gave him an idea.

"I wonder if I could petition the court to allow you at least one supervised visit outside so the boys could see you. I'm sure one of the marshals would be willing to tag along. I'll ask Bentley tomorrow, suggest we do it quietly so the local papers won't trumpet it around and stir up trouble. I can legitimately say that this family traveled over 500 miles to see you."

While he was hesitant to get his hopes up, time with his friends and some time outside the sandstone walls of the prison sounded like paradise to Heath. "'spect I'll also need the OK from my doctors," Heath commented, with a grin. "Those two boys always did like to gang up on me."


	99. Chapter 99

_Nevada State Prison, September, 1874_

Another thunderstorm was rolling across the Carson River Valley, and Heath imagined he could smell the air of the Sierras in the cool downdrafts that blew fitfully around the prison yard. He stopped and closed his eyes, listening to the way the thunder echoed off the slopes of the mountains. He was edgy today, sad and irritable, and he found himself suddenly reluctant to open his eyes again and see the same stones and iron bars and walls around him. He was honestly afraid the sight would make him cry, and the way he felt today, he reckoned if he got started crying he might not be able to stop.

 _Well, don't be ridiculous,_ he admonished himself _. Standing here with your eyes closed isn't going to change your situation._ He opened his eyes and looked at the floor with a sigh. Jarrod had had no luck so far convincing Bentley to let him out for a day. Heath had known it was a long shot, but the disappointment still wore on him. The Levi family would have to travel back to San Diego soon, and Rivka was due to continue on to San Francisco. Heath was feeling healthier each day, but each step of physical recovery made his confinement feel that much more oppressive. He didn't know if he'd be free in a week, or a year, or in ten years, and the passivity of waiting and trusting was becoming a torment.

He found himself thinking back to the jail in Rio Blanco, deliberately making himself remember the details as a cautionary tale. His situation there – and his adversary, in Captain Chavez - was in many ways more clear cut and predictable than what he was facing here. Still, he remembered the moment just a few days into his incarceration there, when the confinement began to make him reckless.

It had all built up quickly – watching one man after another die by firing squad outside the cell window, watching a fellow prisoner sicken and die at his feet, probably from contaminated food, and finally, Chavez ordering Heath to eat his own putrid dinner, "or I will have my men feed it to you." Heath had thrown the bucket of slop in Chavez' face. At that moment, he didn't care if Chavez shot him dead – he just couldn't take _doing nothing_ for another second.

Heath held value to Chavez as a political hostage, so rather than shoot him, Chavez ordered his men to pull Heath out of the cell to punish him. It created an opportunity for mayhem. Heath launched himself at the guards. Had he been strategic, there was perhaps a _very_ small chance he could have made it out of the building, and possibly out of town. Unfortunately, strategy was not was drove him out the cell door and down the hall. What drove him was the relief of movement, the ferocious joy of action, throwing punches and brawling with the _federales_ when he should have been running for the woods.

It was reckless, and ineffective. The soldiers, of course, beat him senseless, and then tied him to the wall so Chavez could have the pleasure of flogging the arrogant rich American boy.

Heath knew himself, and he knew he had to be careful not to make that kind of mistake here. But he needed to do something to relieve the paralysis, find some way to feel useful and human. Rivka had removed the cast from his left arm, so far so good there. Maybe he could do some kind of work in the prison, though he had no idea what the weather might be like for him among the other inmates. Heath had been sequestered in the medical block, initially because he was so sick, of course, but since then, presumably, to keep him out of harm's way. Heath thought Ramos would probably have a good bead on what the mood was in the yard. He decided he'd ask him about getting back to work.

He looked at the books Jarrod had brought him, but he felt too unsettled to sit and read. So he went back to pacing a circle in his cell. He stopped abruptly to brace himself against the iron bars as a fit of coughing supervened. The pain with coughing was still pretty terrible – Rivka called it "pleurisy". He grimaced as he pressed his hand against the left side of his chest, though that did nothing to relieve the stabbing discomfort. The coughing passed. The episodes were slowly, slowly becoming shorter and less frequent. Still, he felt drained and out of breath. He rested his head against the iron bars and closed his eyes. He thought maybe he'd just stay right like that for a spell, until he found the motivation to open his eyes again and get through another hour - or two - or maybe even just fifteen minutes.

"You're not doing well, are you, Heath?" Audra's gentle voice in his ear.

Heath startled from where he had been leaning against the bars of his cell. Had he fallen asleep standing up? He couldn't imagine how else Roberts could have walked Audra in to visit without him hearing her approach. It was disconcerting. He met her concerned eyes, too raw and off-balance to dissimulate.

"No," he admitted, after a moment. "No, I'm not doing well today, sis." He sounded defeated.

The first thing she did was kiss his cheek and hug him, a good, strong, no-reservations, Barkley-style hug, which in and of itself went a long way to making him feel human again. Then she set about bucking him up, as it was clear to her that her brother was suffering a different kind of starvation now, and he was in need of some feeding. He needed some activity and some hope, and at the very least some distraction. So she made him come sit by her on the cot and showed him the new purse she bought and shared some amusing stories about shopping in Carson City with Rivka. She then told him in colorful detail about a horse auction in town that she attended with Nick, detailing a prolonged debate over several of the offerings that had ensued between her and that brother, and berating Heath all the while for not being there to side with her, as of _course_ he would have agreed with her assessment. Before Heath knew it, he was embroiled in the argument as much, if not more, than he would have been had he been there himself.

Having now softened her target sufficiently, Audra gave him an irresistible dimpled smile, pulled out a deck of cards, and insisted that Heath continue to teach her to play poker, because Nick and Jarrod refused to do so. Heath returned the smile, shaking his head in amusement. "OK, little sister, but I want to be there when you clean them out."

After an hour had passed, Roberts leaned his head in. "Miss Barkley, I have to escort you back to the gate now, so his attorney can come in to talk with him."

Audra pouted briefly, but gathered her things and stood. She gave Heath another hug. "Maybe Jarrod's got some good news," she said hopefully.

"Sure hope so. Bye, sis."

Jarrod did have good news. "Bentley and the panel agreed to let you out for a day to visit. It appears that once they met to discuss the request, one of the jurists advocated for granting it, and Bentley acceded."

"Would be nice to think there are some sympathetic minds on that panel," Heath said.

"I hope so. This part of the process is difficult. As your lawyer, I have no input into the grand jury's review of the evidence. The Attorney General presents his information to the panel, and they decide whether there is sufficient cause to hand down an indictment, and on what charges. They could dismiss. That's unusual, but not impossible, and this is an unusual case. If they don't dismiss, then what we'll be watching for are the charges they list for the indictment. Those could make a big difference. After indictment is the arraignment to trial, at which you present your plea, and I get to advocate for you. I just hope Buckner saves all his bloodthirstiness for Risley."

Heath nodded, preoccupied, his jaw tight. He rubbed his chest, wincing slightly, as he started pacing again. Jarrod followed him with worried eyes, then he stood and put a hand on Heath's shoulder, squeezing affectionately. "Well, I'd better go make some arrangements. Mike and Helena have already said that they're throwing a picnic for us and the Levis if they let you out to visit. I'm going to make sure _we_ pick up the tab."


	100. Chapter 100

_She walks in beauty, like the night_

 _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

 _And all that's best of dark and bright_

 _Meet in her aspect and her eyes;_

 _Thus mellowed to that tender light_

 _Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

 _One shade the more, one ray the less,_

 _Had half impaired the nameless grace_

 _Which waves in every raven tress,_

 _Or softly lightens o'er her face;_

 _Where thoughts serenely sweet express,_

 _How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

 _And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,_

 _So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

 _The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

 _But tell of days in goodness spent,_

 _A mind at peace with all below,_

 _A heart whose love is innocent_

Lord Byron, 1813

 _Nevada State Prison, September, 1874_

It was long past sunset. The grand jury was to begin hearing evidence from the Attorney General this week, and Heath still hadn't been given a date for his furlough. It was a calm, warm night, no hint of autumn yet in the air. Heath was not calm. He unbuttoned his shirt, trying to cool off a bit. He paced from window to window in his cell block, unable to sleep, unable even to sit down. Roberts leaned back in his chair, watching, understanding.

"It's gonna be a long night, watching you go back'n forth, back'n forth, Barkley," he commented.

Heath glanced at him. "Well, lucky for you, your shift ends in four hours."

"True that."

The outer door opened, and Nick entered, escorting Rivka. She had borrowed some clothing from Audra - once they discovered happily they wore the same size - and she was dressed in a light cotton button-down shirt and riding slacks. She carried her medical valise.

Heath stopped in his pacing to take in the sight of her. Her hair was loose, and the blouse clung to her curves and lay several buttons open at her throat. She stepped into his cell. His mouth was dry, she smelled lovely, and her presence was making him feel even more overheated than he already was, and full of butterflies besides.

"First things first. I've been ordered to provide a medical evaluation and a pre-trial medical clearance for the grand jury."

Heath didn't smile. He seemed to not know where to direct his eyes, and he stuck his hands nervously in his pockets. She could practically see the worry coming off of him in waves. She also could see her effect on him. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. She made a decision.

"This will not do. You need to relax and get some sleep, otherwise you may get sick again. You need some stamina to survive my brothers' attentions, as I'm sure you remember, and you need your wits about you to deal with the hearings this week." She left the cell and called both Nick and Roberts over. "I need some time alone with him. _Alone_. Understood? Mr. Roberts, you may stand guard, outside."

Both men looked at her in surprise. Then Roberts nodded, suppressing a smile. "Yes, ma'am, I'll be outside."

"Nick. You too. _Out_." Nick backed up slowly, puzzled. Then understanding dawned and he smiled broadly as he turned away.

She closed the outer door firmly, turned down the gas lamps, and then returned to the cell where Heath stood, watching her, unsure, even apprehensive. He swallowed as she stepped up close to face him, looking stern.

"You -" pushing him backwards, "need -" He felt the cot behind him. "To rest." She moved forward until he sat on the bed, then leaned in with a hand on each shoulder until he lay down, looking up at her.

His breathing quickened as she brought her lips next to his ear.

"Heath Barkley, I intend to be your wife someday, do you understand me?"

She pulled back slightly to look in his surprised, wondering eyes. She smiled. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

"You are afraid because we don't know what will happen this week. We _never_ know what will happen. But it doesn't matter, because I love you, and I intend to be your wife, even if the grand jury says I have to wait a hundred years. Do I make myself clear?"

He nodded, opened his mouth as if to speak. She kissed him instead, deeply, taking her time, tasting him and breathing in his scent. She lay down and pressed the length of her body against his, sliding her hand up over his bare chest. He moaned, his arms coming around her waist to pull her in closer.

She moved to kiss his neck, her thigh sliding between his legs, pressing, and she felt him shiver, gasp. She smiled, her face hidden.

"Rivka, wait, I can't - we -"

She kissed her way back up to his ear. "Shh, love. Listen to me. I tended to your naked body for almost two weeks. I remained completely professional, keeping myself admirably in check, and I think we both know that patience is not one of my virtues. True, there are things we won't do until we're properly married, but there's plenty of other things I can think of…" She kissed him again. He was utterly, altogether aroused by her words, lost in the feeling of her mouth on his and her hair falling all around him.

* * *

Nick remained loyally outside the cell block, smoking a cigar and watching the moon rise. He chatted aimlessly with Roberts, both of them chuckling periodically as they glanced at the closed door but refraining from giving voice to the innumerable off-color remarks that came to mind. A few minutes after midnight, the door opened, and Rivka emerged, looking disheveled only to a very suspicious eye, but otherwise composed and wearing a smile. Both men jumped to their feet. She turned first to the deputy marshal.

"Mr. Roberts, you can go back in now, but quietly, please."

"Yes, ma'am." He touched his hat respectfully and stepped inside, maintaining a face of complete seriousness until he had his back turned. Nick looked into the cell block, amazed to see Heath motionless and fast asleep, instead of pacing like a caged mountain lion.

"Nick, will you walk me out?" He turned to her with his best poker face. She met his gaze with a smile and a wink. "Not to worry, big brother. Heath's out. He's going to sleep well tonight."

Nick took a breath in and tried for a straight face for another moment or two. Then he let it out with a laugh and a smile that spoke of both relief and admiration. "You're the doctor." He offered his arm and walked her toward the gate, chuckling and shaking his head. "You are somethin' else."


	101. Chapter 101

_Carson City, September, 1874_

Heath felt the prison transport rumble to a stop by the side of the wide dirt road. They were following the course of the river, heading to Mike Peterson's farm and smithy at the southwest verge of Carson City. It was stuffy and confined inside the transport, made even more oppressive by the wrist shackles that chained him to a heavy metal ring bolted to the floor. Roberts had reluctantly thus imprisoned him for the trip to the Peterson place, under the watchful eye of a court-appointed monitor, who was charged with ensuring that the proper security measures were followed for the furlough. Before they rolled out of the prison, Roberts shuttered the small windows as well.

"That's for your safety, far as I'm concerned, Barkley," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't see as anyone in town needs to know who's riding in here." He paused, right before he closed the back door. Leaning in so he could speak for Heath's ears only, he said, "And don't you worry, I'll get you out of this contraption before we arrive, once we're well out of sight of town. Can't imagine you want to arrive to a picnic wearing this kind of jewelry. 'Specially when it's a picnic with your prospective in-laws." He winked and closed the door.

Heath had smiled his thanks and was glad for the dimness of the transport to hide how much he blushed at the jibe. He had to admit, though, he had slept well, he was going to see his friends and his family and the woman he loved, and he was in far better spirits than he had been in a long time. Now, on this quiet stretch of road, Roberts came around to open the transport. He removed the shackles from Heath's wrists and let him step down to the road. Heath took deep breath, smelling the river and enjoying the wash of fresh air that cooled the sweat from his skin - then had to brace himself against the side of the wagon through a spell of coughing that made him feel like his ribs were made of broken glass. It passed, and Heath thought he'd be a little more cautious next time with the whole deep breathing thing. The pain eased up, and he straightened and wiped his watering eyes. "Jeez."

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Ride up front with me."

Inordinately grateful for any small dose of normalcy, Heath climbed into the driver's box next to the marshal and tipped his face up to the warm September sun. The sound of the Peterson children chasing each other in a game of hide-and-seek tag let them know they had arrived. Pulling up into the yard, Heath was greeted with hugs and kisses from the people he loved best in the world, and he truly felt blessed, no matter what tomorrow might bring. The children began to appear as they emerged from their hiding places, and the group moved toward the house. Heath was examining the fletching of an arrow that Artemis had made with a piece of ash wood and jay feathers, when he heard a rather deep voice behind him.

"Uncle Heath!"

Heath turned, and found himself looking at the buttons of two identical denim work shirts, worn, he could see by tipping his head back, by two identical, broad-shouldered giants. Both were quite handsome, with a mop of curly dark hair, and they were both looking down at him with decidedly wicked grins.

Heath's mouth fell open. Speechless, he retreated a step, telling himself he did so only to be able see them better.

"Hey, Uncle Heath, remember that time when you hung us up on the wall by our belts in the tack room?" Avram said, the conversational tone of his voice belied by the conspiratorial look he gave his brother.

Heath didn't respond immediately, still trying to process the idea that these two more-than-strapping young men were the same two boys he carried one on each shoulder only four years ago. "I did -?" He cleared his throat. "Oh, yeah...Well, _c'mon_ now," he countered after a moment. "I was 16, and - and you two were - you were _seriously_ misbehaving." He found himself taking a few more steps backwards.

David responded to his brother, indignantly. "And how about the time he let us hold the reins on that plow ox and it trotted off and he didn't come help us until it had dragged us both all the way across that mud field?"

"What?" Heath protested innocently, trying not to laugh. "You both said you wanted to drive that ox. You _begged_ me to let you try." Heath looked around, appealing to his amused friends and family. Mike was incapacitated with laughter. Nick, Jarrod, and the Rabbi appeared to be laying wagers, while Victoria and Hadassah looked on smiling. Rivka and Audra, perched on the corral fence, were clearly enjoying this. Roberts grinned and leaned back against a tree, rolling a smoke. Heath could see there was no rescue coming from that quarter, and he carefully retreated another step, glancing behind him.

"Hey, Heath, how about that time you roped them both and dropped them in the horse trough?" Rivka chimed in, helpfully.

He looked at her with some alarm and exasperation. Rivka and Audra laughed outright at this, and his expression shifted to a mix of resigned good humor and a healthy amount of apprehension. Heath swallowed, nodded, and turned back to face the twins, who were now smiling broadly at him, advancing as he retreated. "OK, well, _that_ -", he conceded, now with a rather wicked smile of his own, " _that_ was just purely fun."

Then he ran for it.

David and Avram were after him like a shot, the five Peterson children joining the chase and shouting encouragement to all three.

"Don't hurt him, boys!" Rivka called out, feeling a little worried, as Heath disappeared around the barn with the twins on his heels. "Mama, they better not hurt him."

"At least not too badly," Hadassah said, philosophically.

"Five bucks says one of the twins gets wet first," Jarrod said loyally.

Nick snorted. "I'll take that bet. They're gonna scoop him up and toss him in the pond."

"Ten bucks says Heath dunks _both_ of them first."

"Are you serious?"

"Wanna make it twenty?"

"I would love to get in on this wager," Rabbi Levi said, "but I am not, sadly, in a position to lay so much cash on the line. If I could, though, I'd bet on Heath's wits over my boys' admittedly impressive brawn. Unless, of course, Heath starts coughing his lungs out and is rendered helpless. Then they will scoop him up and toss him in the pond. We shall see."

"Mother, did you bring him some clean clothes?" Audra asked, not taking her eyes off the barn, where sounds of combat, frightened chickens, and cheering children could be heard.

"Of course I did, dear," Victoria answered, serenely happy.


	102. chapter 102

_Carson City, September, 1874_

They could hear the ongoing sounds of mayhem in and around the barn.

"I don't honestly know how he can keep it up," commented Nick. "I mean, it wasn't three days ago he could barely get up out of a chair!"

"Well, let's just take a walk down where we can keep an eye on our little brother," Jarrod suggested. "And I want witnesses when he wins me Nick's twenty dollars."

As they came around to the back of the barn, they could see Heath was flagging, badly winded, though he still had a smile on his face. He had been dodging and ducking around the obstacles in the cluttered barn, trying to make the two boys work hard to get at him, but they had flushed him out, and were backing him down toward the water's edge.

They stalked him now, moving out to flank him, to competing cries of "throw him in the water!" and "c'mon Heath, get 'em!" from the Peterson kids.

Avram finally made his move, lunging in to grab Heath from behind, prompting David to charge in, both of them planning to toss Heath into the pond. Heath could sense immediately he'd have no luck with these two once it came to grappling or brute strength - he was still too weak, they were strong as hell, and with a wingspan like a California Condor besides.

So he figured if he couldn't take down Avram himself, he'd have David do it for him. So he dropped straight to the ground, and watched both boys somersault into the water, making his brother Jarrod, once again, a very happy man.

Heath took a moment to stand on shore and laugh, but his celebration didn't last long, as he started coughing and the twins came roaring back out of the water at him. Laughing still, he tried to scramble away but he had no energy left. They took him down quickly, and then they tossed him in the pond. He did manage to tangle them up again, so they fell in the water along with him. More wrestling then ensued, but soon Heath had to wave a white flag. The boys carried him lovingly up onto the shore, laid him down on the grass, and collapsed next to him, lying close on each side and gazing at the sky until Heath could stop coughing and breathe again. As they lay there, the other five children gravitated in until they were all lying on the grass in a cluster, watching the clouds drift by.

"Missed you, Uncle Heath." Avram said.

"Missed you too."

"You have to go back tonight?" David asked.

"Yeah."

"Wish you could stay. We all wish you could stay."

"Me too."


	103. Chapter 103

_Carson_ _City, September, 1874_

The balmy day was easing into the afternoon, and a gentle, fitful breeze was ruffling the surface of the pond. There was a suggestion of thunderclouds on the horizon off to the southwest. Victoria watched as Heath and Rivka took some time to walk together by the water, their fingers intertwined. _That is as it should be,_ she thought fiercely. _Time to walk and talk and love, not just fight for survival. Please let him come home soon._ She was reminded, suddenly, vividly, of herself and Tom at that age. She herself was not so tall as Rivka, but she had been dark-haired in her youth, like her sons. And Heath was so like her husband, not just in his coloring and his features, but in the way he carried himself. Watching them walk hand in hand, she could almost imagine it was Tom and she, more than thirty years ago.

Heath still could scarcely believe he was walking in this peaceful place with Rivka at his side. He found himself wishing the day could just go on forever, but being who he was, he couldn't put aside the things he felt he needed to say to her. He stopped, turning to look at her.

"You are so beautiful," he couldn't help saying first, as that thought was a constant presence in his mind whenever he was with her.

"So are you," she responded, looking him in the eyes with a smile on her lips that caused his serious train of thought to hop the tracks. It took him a moment to recover what he wanted to say.

"I don't know where to start," he said.

"Why don't you start by asking me to marry you?" she suggested.

His voice was suddenly rough with grief. "How can I? How can I ask that of you, of your parents? I could be stuck here for years. I want to build you a home, keep you safe, help you build your practice, live my life with you. But I'm not free, and I don't know when I will be. I wouldn't be a help to you, I'd be a liability. You have everything ahead of you, so much you've worked for. You've come so far, and I - I'm just -"

"Stop right there." She held up a hand, and he halted mid-sentence. "I've been expecting this. So just be quiet and listen for a minute." He closed his mouth and remained silent, watching her, trusting but sad.

"I've come so far, and you -? You think I have moved on, and up, and that you are somehow not worthy." She raised her eyebrows, questioning him. "Don't start thinking like an inmate, Heath, you never did before. Do you think that unless you can come to my parents as a prosperous, established young man they won't find you good enough?

"Let me ask you this: who _exactly_ do you think I have loved - and my family has loved - all these years? Some wealthy rancher I've never met? Or is it the brave, honest boy who offered his life for the ones he loves, for what he believes in? That penny-poor, tumbleweed cowboy who has been my friend, my confidante, who's given me strength and helped me laugh instead of being afraid?

"And why exactly _are_ you here, locked up, anyway? Is it because of some crime or weakness? Or is it because you acted as the man I know you to be? The boy who jumped into hell and high water to protect us, the man who did the same for his brothers. Why would I think less of you _now_? It makes no sense," she said, holding both his arms, her dark eyes focused on his.

She was silent for a moment, as a deeper understanding began to take shape in her mind. Her voice gentled. "But that's not exactly it, is it?" She nodded, slowly, thinking. "Being locked up here, you feel you are in the same place you were ten years ago. But it's more than that... maybe you even believe that you would be _bad_ for me in some way...? Yes?" She searched his face intently. "Yes, you think you would drag _me_ back into the past we share, because it is so _present_ , for you, right now." Her eyes filled with tears, thinking of what Heath had been through since this ordeal began. "You feel like you are trapped, back there. You want to protect me. You think you must stay behind, let me go, in order for me to be free."

He was at a loss for words. "I love you," was all he could manage.

"Heath, my love, you are locked up at the moment, but you are not trapped. The evils that have befallen us sometimes do come back again. We have to battle them, again. But it is not you who is stuck. Forgive me for being too metaphorical, but you are not a caged animal, circling mindlessly on the same track over and over until the day you die. You are the Catskill eagle, spiraling up on the wind."

He brought a hand up to brush her hair from her face, a smile beginning in his eyes. "You _are_ very metaphorical," he said.

"Well, let me be plain, then," she said, putting her arms around his waist and tilting her face up to his. "We rise together, cowboy. I'll be _really_ mad at you if you try to bail out because of some legal troubles. And you even have a lawyer in the family."

He kissed her then, and felt that the weight of some very old, rusty iron was beginning to slip away from him.

" _Who can find a valiant woman? for her worth is far above rubies. The heart of her husband does safely trust in her._ "

"If you can quote that in the original Hebrew, my father will truly be impressed."

"Would you marry me, Rivka?" he asked her. "Someday?"

"Yes, Heath, I will."


	104. Chapter 104

_Carson City, September, 1874_

"I'm so glad the rain held off all day," Audra said, helping Helena fold the table cloth they had thrown over the picnic table for dinner. "It's going to be a pretty sunset, but it looks like a good storm is coming in."

Helena could hear the sadness in her voice. "I'm sorry he has to go back, Audra." She watched as Heath and Mike and Rivka walked together up from the pond, Tommy and Artemis riding bareback escort on their ponies, armed with bows and arrows.

Roberts stood as they approached and held up a hand to Heath. _Five minutes._ Heath nodded and went to say his goodbyes to Rivka's parents and brothers. He expected he wouldn't see them again before they left for San Diego. He earlier had had a long private talk with the Rabbi, seeking his permission to marry his daughter. Neither man had shared the details of their discussion, other than to say that the couple had the Rabbi's blessing. Hadassah needed no words to bless the engagement. She merely looked lovingly at Heath, kissed his cheek, and hugged him for a long time. Avram and David, however, couldn't contain their excited approval. Before Heath could take any evasive action, they had tackled him again in celebration, fortunately staying out of the pond this time. Now, though, it was time to say goodbye, and the twins were downcast, but they extracted a promise from Heath and their father that they could come to the ranch in the summer.

Roberts rolled up in the wagon. Rivka walked with Heath, reaching up to touch his hand one more time once he had settled in the seat beside the marshal. He raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, then reluctantly let them go. Rivka stood with Victoria, watching the wagon roll away.

Heath leaned forward with a groan once they were out of sight of the house. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he took the deep breath he had been avoiding and then coughed until he thought he might pass out and fall off his seat onto the road. Roberts, concerned, pulled the wagon to a halt when he saw Heath groping with one hand for balance. He reached a hand over to steady him.

Heath groaned again, still curled over his knees. Roberts could hear him wheezing. "Think maybe you overdid a bit today, Barkley?"

"A bit, yeah," he whispered. "Worth it." Heath stayed in that position as Roberts got the team moving back up the road again. After a little while, he slowly straightened up, looking around as thunder rumbled from behind them.

"Wonder if we'll make it back before that storm hits," Roberts said.

"You think I could start working somewhere in the prison?" Heath asked. "I'm getting a little squirrely sitting in the sick ward. I gotta do something."

"This from the guy who just almost passed out from coughing."

"It's getting better. But you know what I mean, Roberts. I can't just sit, and wait, and worry. I'm going crazy."

"I know what you mean. They moved Risley out, did you know that? Holding him in some other federal pen. He was stirring up trouble still. _He's_ the crazy one. That guy's head is like a bag full a' cats. Scary how he could still get men to listen to him even so." Roberts shook his head. "We'll all be better off once they string him up, you ask me. So now he's gone, maybe Ramos can find some place you can keep busy, but don't you let your guard down. Risley was spreading poison around like confetti at parade. Grand jury's hearing from the AG this week, maybe you shouldn't rock the boat."

Heath sighed, nodded. "You're probably right."

Closer to town, Roberts pulled to a stop again. "OK, hop in the back."

Shackled once again in the closed transport, Heath leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head. He was tired, emotionally and physically. The time with his friends and family, the thought of a future with Rivka - these things filled him with light and yearning that made the confines of this dim box seem even more suffocating, the chains on his wrists heavier and more oppressive. He shook his head, fighting against that feeling. That way, he knew, lay bitterness and anger. He had so much to be thankful for. He had to hold those things close as a source of strength, not let his fear of loss, the pain of separation drive him down even more. But oh, it was hard, and he was so tired.

He might have dozed off for a few minutes, as the transport rolled into the city limits and passed between lines of idle boxcars in the train yard. Heath startled awake as the wagon jolted to a sudden stop. He heard shouts and the nervous sounds of frightened horses. From all sides came low, angry voices and restless movement, and Heath's mouth went dry with sudden fear. "Roberts? What's going on?" he asked in a low voice, but he didn't need an answer. He recognized the sound and smell of the murmuring crowd that had surrounded them. Lynch mobs might come in all shapes and sizes and colors, but they all had the same stench, they all played the same tune.


	105. Chapter 105

_Carson City, September, 1874_

"Back off! I am a federal officer!"

Roberts fired a single shot into the air. From inside the transport, Heath could hear that there were women and even a few children in the murmuring crowd, which showed no signs of complying with the marshal's order. He couldn't let this escalate into a shootout in which certainly Roberts - and who knew how many others - could be killed.

"Marshal!" he called out. Then more quietly, "Jim, please, stand down. You can't shoot us out of this. Please."

He heard the sound of a brief struggle, and Roberts' bitten off curse, as the marshal was pulled from the driver's box and disarmed. A moment later, the back doors were unlocked and thrown open. In the torchlight, Heath could only make out silhouettes as several men surged into the transport, unlocked the shackles from the anchor in the floor, and dragged him forward to throw him onto the road outside. He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him.

"There he is, folks," said a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

Coughing, stunned, Heath struggled up to his hands and knees. He could see the ring of people closing in around him, voices hissing accusations and condemnation. _"Mad dog." "Killer." "Jew_." That last was a new one for him, who'd been called names all his life, and he almost laughed. _Seems I've become an honorary member of a new group,_ he thought.

Unsteadily, he got back on his feet, slowly turning in a circle to see the murmuring torch-lit faces closing him in. They were staring at him, but not _seeing_ him; staring at him with such loathing that he imagined he could feel it wrapping around him, weighing down his limbs, constricting his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could scarcely draw a breath. Words died on his tongue. He saw no mercy, saw nothing but violence in their eyes, and beneath the terror, there rose in him an unspeakable sadness.

He wondered if he had ever felt as completely alone as he did in that moment.

He backed away, even as he knew it was futile. He was hemmed in on all sides. From behind him, a woman swung an ax handle, striking his shoulder. He stumbled forward, and angry arms pushed him back. He turned to look into her face, part of him still wanting to know _why_ , but he found no answers there. Rough hands seized him, held him, and she struck him again and again.

"Mongrel bastard needs to _die_ ," someone yelled, and then it was as if a flood gate had been opened. The bodies pressed in, with hands that pushed and pulled him into the maw of the crowd with eager violence. The blows from fists and boots and clubs came raining down from every direction. The pain and ugliness swelled in intensity like massive ocean waves under a hurricane wind. It was terrifying. He tried desperately to stay on his feet, but he was drowning under the onslaught. He staggered, and as he went to his knees, Heath thought he could see the grinning face of death weaving gleefully in and among the angry crowd, urging them on. The next blow sent him to the ground. He closed his eyes then and sent a prayer to his family and to his Rivka. He covered his head, and tried not to cry out.

"Let him go -" he heard Roberts yell.

A new voice cut through the noise. "All right, hold up, let's be orderly about this, we're not here just to beat him to death in the street."

The waves receded, reluctantly, and hands pulled Heath roughly to his feet, the shackles on his wrists clanking in the sudden quiet. He had the sensation he was being hauled up from the depths of the ocean. Breathing hard and shaking badly, as his vision cleared, he looked first for Roberts, who looked a little banged up but otherwise OK. Then he looked to see who had spoken. With a sinking feeling, he saw two faces he recognized: Jack, the would-be sniper from Gardnerville, and the big barrel-chested guard from the prison who had threatened Cho - and him, Heath remembered with a twist of extra worry. His name was...De something. Deleo, that was it. His was the voice Heath recognized but couldn't place. And Jack - Heath was pretty sure they never exchanged words, but he guessed the man was carrying a sizable grudge nonetheless.

He and Roberts made eye contact, and the same question crossed both their minds. How did these two know to rustle up a mob of angry citizens to ambush them here, right at this moment, in this deserted rail yard?

Heath was urgently scanning the crowd and the two apparent ring leaders, looking for any opening. But on another level he was thinking through that question, wondering now for the first time why someone on the grand jury had suddenly pushed the judge to approve his leave from the prison. Heath had been so quick to welcome that small gain as a sign of favor, it had never occurred to him it might have been in fact the opposite. But he had no time now to ponder that worrisome possibility. Unfriendly hands grabbed him, pushed him forward.

Deleo stepped up close to him, an unpleasant smile on his face. "Been looking forward to another meeting with you," he said, his breath smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. He glanced at Jack, but kept his eyes on Heath as he spoke. "I think we oughta shoot that marshal there with his own gun, leave 'im here dead. That way he won't tell no tales, and Barkley here can take the rap."

There was some uncomfortable humming from the crowd at this suggestion, and Heath noticed a few citizens quietly melting away into the dark at the back of the group. Even Jack seemed uncomfortable with that idea. Deleo grabbed the marshal's sidearm from Jack and pointed it at Roberts.

"I'm telling you, he needs to be kept quiet."

"No, please -" Heath lunged forward, breaking loose long enough to put himself between Deleo and Roberts. Thunder cracked overhead, and fat raindrops began to fall. He begged. "Please. Don't shoot him. The man's only doing his job. Let him go. Lock him up in the wagon if you need to, they probably won't find him for hours. I'll come quietly. Don't hurt him."

Deleo backhanded Heath with the pistol, and he staggered back, seeing stars. Deleo moved toward him, backing him up against the wagon. "You'll come quietly, will you? That's a laugh. You got no chips on this table, boy, nothin' to trade. You'll come along any way I say you will. I don't give a damn whether you're quiet or not."

He took a step closer, and Heath sidestepped, wrapping the chain of his shackles around Deleo's neck and pulling tight, throttling him and holding him as a shield in front of him. Deleo tried to lift the marshal's gun, but Heath yanked on the chain and it fell from the guard's hand. The mob seemed to thin out even more, but those who stayed moved in closer, menacing. It occurred to Heath that they had deliberately fleshed out the "mob" with women and children and other willing locals to provide some cover, prevent a shootout, but that this now was the core group. Heath could see his gambit would not provide him with an exit, but it might work to get Roberts out of this. The rain started to fall in earnest, and lightning flashed.

"Now this is me _not_ coming quietly," Heath growled in Deleo's ear. "Your choice. Let Roberts go, or I will kill you and then take my chances. Let him go right now, and you get to keep your head attached."

Deleo looked at Jack and nodded rapidly, his face starting to grow purple. Jack gestured to the men holding Roberts. "Turn him loose." They pushed Roberts forward, the sweat on his brow glistening in the torchlight. "Turn this wagon around." Jack ordered Roberts up inside the wagon and locked him in. Then he swatted the team and sent them galloping back out of town and down the road into the dark. He turned back to Heath, who was still immobilizing Deleo, but was now surrounded by a tightening circle of vicious-looking men. "Your turn, Barkley. Time to go."

For a moment, Heath considered killing Deleo anyway, his grip tightening on the chain around his neck. But Jack lifted the fallen sidearm and placed it against Heath's temple and pulled back the hammer. "Time to go."

He could hear the breathing of the men surrounding him, could feel their eyes on him, and he could not see in his mind any path to safety. With the terrible feeling of a man stepping off a cliff, Heath let Deleo go. Deleo stumbled forward, coughing, then turned and punched Heath hard enough to knock him off his feet onto the now wet, muddy road. Standing over him, he rasped, "Like I said, boy, I've been looking forward to another meeting with you. This'll just make it sweeter."

Jack gestured with his chin. "Get 'im up." The men yanked Heath off the ground and threw a rough cloth sack over his head, then pushed him into the back of a cart that had been hidden nearby and drove off.


	106. chapter 106

_Carson City, September, 1874_

Nick drove the surrey carefully, no faster than a slow jog, as they made their way back to town from the Peterson home. They had left ahead of the storm, but it caught up with them at sunset, and the visibility was poor. Much as he wanted to get his four passengers quickly back to the hotel and out of the weather, he also didn't want to run them into a fallen branch or a washout because he couldn't stop in time.

While he concentrated on the road ahead, he listened with half an ear to the flow of conversation of the family around him - family that now included a future sister-in-law. He smiled at the idea, happy for his brother, happy for all of them.

They were laughing over another tale Rivka was sharing of Heath as a teenager, wrangling both of her brothers and all twelve of the Baum children, when they heard the clatter of an approaching carriage. The road here was wide, allowing Nick to pull to the side to ensure there'd be no collision. As the carriage came into view in the flashes of lightning, it took him a moment to realize there was no driver, and yet another moment to realize it was the transport from the prison.

"Nick, what are you doing?" Victoria called, as Nick pulled their surrey to a halt and jumped out into the road.

The team had been spooked by the weather and the lack of a driver, and seemed relieved at the sight of a human to take the reins. They stopped readily, blowing slightly. Jarrod had joined Nick in the road. "What is this?" They looked at each other, immediately alarmed.

"Get me out of here!" Roberts yelled.

* * *

Heath made no attempt to get up off the floor of the cart into which he had been thrown. He couldn't see, anyway, and he could get a better sense of speed and direction lying still and avoiding a futile struggle with the men who held him down.

It seemed quite likely to him that he wouldn't live to see the sun come up, unless some lucky opportunity came his way. He allowed himself briefly to feel glad for the day he had with his loved ones. He then put that thought aside, because he wasn't quite ready yet to think like a condemned man.

Heath grimaced as the cart jostled, driving the knee on his back into his ribs, and his chest into the wood and metal scraps that littered the floor on which he lay. The mob Deleo had gathered had the familiar torch-and-pitchfork feeling - the fear and hatred masquerading as righteousness, the willingness to do violence as part of a mob that one might never do as an individual. Deleo and Jack had used that terrifying crowd to corner him, but the crowd had fallen away, and now it felt to him he was in the hands of habitually violent men who were interested in revenge.

His questions again veered back to the jury panel and the judge's decision to allow him the furlough. Neither Jack nor Deleo struck him as leaders, men with the initiative to gather intelligence and arrange a strategic ambush. They were hungry to do him harm, that was clear, and Heath guessed they intended him to suffer plenty before they killed him, but from whom we they taking orders? Heath wondered if he'd ever have the chance to find out, not that it mattered much at the moment.

The cart came to a halt. The thunderstorm had passed, and the air was cool and pine-scented. Heath was pulled out and hustled into a building that smelled like it had been used for butchering, though now he sensed it was musty and abandoned. They had traveled north and west, Heath was guessing, gaining altitude, for over an hour, which would put them in the foothills but still not far from the city limits.

Standing inside, still hooded, Heath smelled Deleo coming in close and braced himself. Hard fists slammed into him - back, ribs, then a right to his jaw - and he was down on his knees. He knew what Deleo wanted, and he hoped to God he could avoid that, hoped maybe someone else was calling the shots.

He heard Jack, now, sounding smug. "You ain't looking like such a soldier now, are you, Barkley?" Heath could hear him circling and then step up close behind him. He grabbed Heath under the chin, pulling his head back and stroking a knife along his throat. "I spent two weeks in jail cause a' you, mongrel, though we was out doing our civic duty and protecting our families from scum like you. And Jones, he lost his right arm, did you know that? I plan to do the same to you before we hang you, I promised him I would."

He slid the knife away from Heath's throat and began pressing the point of it slowly into the back of his right shoulder. Heath stiffened, biting back any sound, as blood starting to run freely down his arm. When the blade contacted bone, Jack twisted it viciously. Heath couldn't suppress either the cry of pain or the reflex to struggle and pull away from the excruciating pain in his arm. Jack pulled his head back harder against his chest, laughing in his ear as he ground the knife further into his shoulder. Heath was panting through clenched teeth, sweat and tears of pain running down his face. "Yeah, that's right, that's the idea. We've got time. I've got all night to get this arm off."

Heath was suddenly afraid he would vomit, and crazy as it was, the thought of doing so with a sack tied over his head scared him almost as badly as what Jack was doing to his arm. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to slow his breathing, settle down his insides.

"That arm's bleeding like stink, Jack," one of the men said. "Can't have him bleeding to death before the boss gets here, right?"

"Hmm. Yeah, guess not." Heath felt Jack lean in close to his ear again. "Guess I'll plug that hole, and later I'll start digging from the other side."

He stepped away. "String up the mongrel on one of them meathooks for now."

Heath shuddered at the feeling of Jack's breath on his skin and the craziness of his thoughts in his ear. But now he knew there was a boss, and the one good thing about that, was that these two men - if one could call them _men_ \- couldn't have their way with him until the boss said so.

His shoulder was throbbing and he could feel blood soaking the sleeve of his shirt and dripping off his fingers. It didn't seem that Jack had any intention of doing anything about that, which in Heath's mind meant that there was a hard time limit on how long he could take to escape from here. The clock was ticking, so to speak. He grunted in pain as several men yanked him up and across the room, pulling his arms up and securing the shackles to what he assumed was a meathook.

He smelled Deleo once again, and he tensed, praying that rape was not the next thing coming his way. The big man pressed up behind him, reaching around to grab the front of his pants. Another wave of nausea rose up in Heath's throat, and he whimpered slightly, fighting it back down. Deleo chuckled at that, imagining the sound was an indication of surrender. He began to rub himself against Heath, his other arm wrapping around his chest, then sliding up to his throat.

"Deleo! Not now. Get over here, we got stuff to get ready."

Deleo squeezed him again, painfully. "Later, mutt." Then he pushed off of him and moved away. Heath now felt blood running down his back, and he was starting to feel dizzy. He set himself to listening, waiting for the moment he was alone in the room. It might be his only chance.

After a few minutes, Heath was as sure as he could be that the room was empty. He carefully opened his right hand, now sticky with blood, and moved the piece of barbed wire he had found in the cart - and which he had (painfully) palmed - up to the tips of his fingers. Slowly, concentrating fiercely because his head was dizzy and his hands were going numb, he set to work on the handcuffs. Five minutes later he was out the back window and running for the river he could hear singing up ahead, the river finding her way down to the valley.


	107. chapter 107

_Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man._

 _Mary_ _Wollstonecraft Shelley, 1818_

 _"Frankenstein"_

 _Ash Canyon, Carson City_ _, September, 1874_

Heath ran.

He ran like a man all too aware of the near-full moon, illuminating the sparsely forested, desert foothills of this part of the Sierras. This was wide open terrain, easy to spot and chase down a man on foot. Easy to track that man, especially if he were bleeding, unless another fortuitous rain shower came through.

Heath ran for the river. Right now he was in a foot race with blood loss. He needed to find at least enough cover to stop for a minute and staunch the bright red throbbing hemorrhage of his shoulder before it drained him. If he didn't accomplish that, he wasn't going to get much farther anyway. The canyon up ahead might give him a chance.

His breath coming in harsh gasps, he scrambled up the rocky grade, trying to keep to the trees where he could, to reach the ridge where the terrain dropped to the creek below. Heath pictured a map of what he knew of this area from the days when he tried his hand at silver mining. Glancing quickly around to orient himself - due north there, the lights of Carson City in the valley southeast of him - he thought this might be Ash Canyon. He threw himself flat down with an ear to the ground, swearing under his breath as he discerned at least two horses riding hard, and probably coming his way.

Keeping low, he crested the ridge and descended toward the twisting creek at the bottom, with its heavier shadows of vegetation, water to cover his tracks, and narrow steep sides to even the odds with the men on horseback. When he reached the bottom, he ran downstream along the shore for about twenty yards, then waded into the frigid snow-melt water and headed upstream, up toward the the top of the mountain, away from the city. He figured his pursuers would expect him to head for town, seek out his family or the marshals for protection. He planned to head up-country, where the forest grew more densely, and find a spot to watch his back trail and make a plan.

He clutched in his hand a few rags and a rusted old butcher knife he had spotted in the corner of the shack as he fled. He had to find a place to hide and bandage himself up. He was exhausted, scared, bleeding, and beat up (yet again), and he was not at all sure of what he was going to do to get himself out of this situation. On the other hand, he was free and on familiar ground for the first time in months. Foraging and hunting in wilderness much like this was how he spent a good part of his childhood. Insurgence and reconnaissance was how he spent most of his career as a soldier. Even armed only with a rusty knife, and hunted by hostile townsfolk and a gang of mounted thugs, he still thought his odds looked pretty damn good.

He staggered through the currents of some deeper, narrow turns in the creek, then saw a likely spot. He pulled himself up into a dry crevice on the bank with some overhanging greenery. Pushing himself back out of sight between the rocks, he took off his shirt and tried to get at least a partial look at his shoulder. What he could see wasn't good - it wasn't a giant hole, but the blood that flowed from it was bright red and pulsing, pulsing rapidly, in fact, and with enthusiasm, given his sprinting through the mountains. Heath was pretty sure this was bleeding that would not stop on its own, at least until most of his blood was gone. He looked down at the filthy rags in his hand. They looked almost as lethal, as he imagined himself dying of lockjaw or gangrene up here in the hills alone. He sighed. So much for his shirt, a clean one his mother had brought for him to the picnic - was that just this morning?

He shook his head as he felt sudden tears in his eyes. No time for that now. He decided, though, that he would keep the shirt in one piece. Steeling himself, he wrapped a section of the sleeve over the fingers of his left hand. He reached as far over his shoulder as he could, held his breath, and then jammed his fingers as far into the wound as he could. He took a few short breaths, sweating profusely now, and then shoved a few more inches of the cloth into the hole.

It was clear to him he was going to faint before he got the job done if he stayed upright any longer. He lay down on his left side, fighting the nausea, and carefully wound the rest of the shirt around his shoulder, gradually tightening it so it would put pressure on the wound but not pull out the packing inside. He secured the free end as best he could one-handed, then rolled to his back with a groan. The canyon was rotating slowly, sickeningly around him. He closed his eyes, thinking, _Nick would like how I wrapped that up without slicing up my shirt. Wish he was here_...Heath drifted off to the sound of the running creek.


	108. Chapter 108

_Ash Canyon, Nevada, September, 1874_

Heath woke before dawn, about 4:05 AM according to his internal timepiece. He was cold - very cold, in fact - and sore, but mainly he was thirsty. Powerfully, urgently thirsty. He crawled to the waterline, ignoring the screeching pain in his right shoulder, and dropped his face into the creek, sucking up the cold water like a horse. Then he rolled to his back again, shivering, as the drink of water now left him chilled inside and out. _Nothing that a little movement can't warm up_ , he thought. _And I'd better get moving, all right._ Heath carefully re-wrapped and secured the shirt that bandaged his shoulder, and washed out the filthy rags in the creek, in case he found a use for them. Crouching by the creek, he scooped up handfuls of silt and mud, rubbing it over his face, back, chest and arms until he blended into the canyon bed as well as one of the toads he intended to catch for breakfast. He retrieved the butcher knife. He waited a few moments before he emerged again from the rocks, listening, looking. Then he stepped out into the creek and vanished upstream.

 _Carson City Federal Building, September 1874_

"What the hell _happened_?" Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Smith struggled to keep his voice down, as he didn't want to add to the anguish of the family members gathered in the next room. He paced, wanting to shake answers out of his assembled deputies that he knew they didn't have.

Smith had arrived back in town to an urgent message from Ramos, and Mike Peterson waiting for him at the rail station. On the way to the Federal Building, Mike had filled him on on the deputies' limited information, as well as a more colorful understanding of events gleaned from the smithy, the pub, the schoolyard, and the churchyard. The straight story from the deputies was that the transport had been ambushed while returning to the prison, the trap laid with careful attention to timing and choice of location. Roberts stood down when faced with an apparently civilian crowd, urged to do so by Heath, to avoid bloodshed. The angry mob then set about attacking Heath. This was allowed to proceed only so far, according to Roberts, because the two ring leaders appeared to have a different agenda.

"What agenda?"

"Barkley recognized both of them. I only recognized Deleo. I don't know who the other man was, but it was clear he had some score to settle."

"Deleo. God _dammit_ ," Ramos muttered. He could picture the burly thug slamming Heath up against the wall at the prison, his intent obvious.

Roberts went on. "They had this mob there waiting, women and children - Barkley locked up in there telling me to stand down. Then Deleo wanted to kill me and pin it on Heath. Most of the civilians started fading away at that point." He laughed bitterly. "They were fine with beating Barkley to death in the road, I guess, but shooting _me_ seemed too _criminal_ , somehow." He was getting a little emotional, and he took a second before he continued. "That's when Barkley throttled Deleo and told him he'd kill him unless they let me go. So the other guy locked me in the transport and drove the horses off. The other guy was the one stopped the mob from killing Barkley. He seemed to have some say over Deleo. But I still got the feeling _he_ was following someone's orders, like he had to make a delivery. I wish to hell I could tell you more than that. I don't even know which goddamn way they went when they took 'im, or even _if_ they took 'im. No idea. Where the hell do we start looking?"

"Yeah, exactly, where the hell _do_ we start looking?" Nick growled as he entered the room with Jarrod. "You know anything else about this guy Deleo? You know _anything_ else that can tell us where Heath is?"

"Word around this morning is that Heath is loose in the hills. The 'Leviathan Killer' is loose, and citizens' posses are forming all around town to track him and hunt him down," Mike said soberly. He gestured out the window to make his point, as a small group of farmers with shotguns piled into the back of a re-purposed hay wagon, preparing to join the pursuit. "I hope to God he _is_ loose, 'cause _they_ ain't gonna catch him, especially up in the high country. I hope to God it means he got away from Deleo and that other guy and he's on the run. If they _had_ killed him, don't you think they'd want to crow it around, let everyone know?" He looked questioning, hoping, around the room.

"If he is loose, Nick, do you think he'd find some way to contact us?" This from Victoria, her voice hoarse with worry, entering with Rivka and Audra.

Nick looked seriously at his mother, thinking. "He might. If he thought it wouldn't endanger us, he might. But I'm guessing first he'll head up country to get some room to maneuver, get the lay of the land, decide what to do."

Rivka spoke up then, picking up a thread that she and Audra and Victoria had been discussing. "You keep suggesting there's someone giving orders - someone who had knowledge of when Heath would be returning to the prison and arranging an ambush. Is it possible that "someone" is the juror who suddenly pushed for the judge to approve the leave? Is it possible to find out who that person is?"

"I'm such a fool. I was so quick to see that show of support as a good sign," Jarrod railed at himself. "I never thought it could be a trap. It never even _occurred_ to me."

"It never occurred to any of us, Jarrod."

Jarrod turned to Smith, who nodded. "We'd better go see Bentley," Smith said.

 _Ash Creek Canyon, Nevada, September, 1874_

Crouched between boulders below Snow Valley Peak, Heath watched as Deleo, Jack, and one of their men searched the canyon for his trail to follow. He smiled to see that they had been forced to dismount, and now their man was leading all three horses up out of the canyon, as the creek was too swift and steep-walled for their mounts to proceed. Deleo and Jack continued on foot, wading upstream, struggling a bit with the weight of the equipment and rifles they carried, but still coming on directly to his hiding place.

 _Carson City Federal Building, September 1874_

Attorney General Buckner came promptly to Bentley's office when he was notified of the emergency meeting. He was a bit nervous with all this talk of the killer loose in the hills - several of the grand jury members had been very dramatic about it over coffee at the hotel this morning. Buckner, of course, saw himself as a prime target should the fugitive decide to seek revenge. He wondered if he should request some sort of extra protection.

Bentley, on the other hand was bothered. He was bothered by how this whole affair had evolved over the summer. He was realizing that despite his careful adherence to the facts before him, and what he _believed_ was a common sense interpretation of those facts, he appeared to be proven wrong again and again, at least as regards this Heath Barkley fellow. He had to admit to himself that Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal John Smith had not yet misled him. And it _had_ bothered him, in the back of his mind, when the panel changed its position regarding the furlough - but at the time, he was just happy to get Jarrod Barkley out of his office for a day or two.

"Your Honor," Jarrod inquired, "what would be the penalty for a juror if they were found to have conspired in what amounts to kidnapping and attempted murder?"

"That would be a capital felony, punishable by life imprisonment or death."

Smith sat down in front of the Judge's desk. "Walter. Who was it?"

Bentley looked at Buckner, who paused, then nodded. "He is a new member of the panel," Bentley offered. "When we sent out the request to assemble, he responded very quickly, came to town almost immediately. He's been one of the hard-liners pushing to keep Heath in jail. But then this furlough request came to the panel, and all of a sudden - he just switched sides. He was very convincing to the other panelists. Very influential."

"We need a name."

"Brown. Matthew Brown. He's an older man, semi-retired, came to town here about a year ago. Had some quick success designing some water systems for the silver mines, made a lot of money, and became involved in local politics. Just volunteer, respectable stuff - board of directors of the hospital, for example, did some volunteer consulting for the prison as it was built. I'm told he's a retired engineer."

Jarrod began to feel queasy. "Matthew Brown."

"Yes, that's the name."

"And where would we find this... _gentleman_?" Jarrod said, tightly, as queasiness changed quickly into simmering rage.

Smith looked closely at Jarrod. "Hold up, counselor. Hold up. You need to catch us all up with what you're thinking, and then we need a plan."


	109. Chapter 109

_Ash Canyon, Nevada, September, 1874_

Jack and Deleo continued to toil on foot up the base of Ash Canyon, tracking Heath's retreat. They shifted to the south bank of the creek, where they found some easier footing through a stand of trees. Heath watched as they entered the forested area, then quickly traversed the north slope of the canyon, close to the ridge, taking care not to send noisy debris rolling down the bank below him. By the time Deleo and Jack had emerged into the open, Heath was out of sight, over the ridge and scouting east. He was hunting the man with the three horses.

* * *

 _Carson City, September, 1874_

"Good morning, Mr. Brown. Here is your newspaper, and you've received a message regarding the hospital."

"Oh? What is it?"

"It's from a Dr. H. Levi, who is requesting a meeting with you as a member of the Board. Dr. Levi wants to introduce a potential benefactor for the hospital, an extremely wealthy widow, apparently. The request is to meet with you later this morning, if you can be available."

 _A wealthy widow? That sounds promising._ "Certainly. James, reply I would be happy to meet with them in my office at 10:30, if that is convenient for them." Mr. Brown lifted the morning paper, relishing the feeling of being respected and rich, with secretaries to do his bidding and city leaders seeking his help and counsel.

Scanning the front page, he saw a great deal more to relish. It was not only city leaders, but several city writers and editors who were quite pliable and beholden to him. Their compliance with his instructions had made the papers a very effective instrument upon which to play his tune. The headlines showed him that the people of Carson City were dancing nicely to that tune, sending posses into the hills and calling for the capture of Heath Barkley with ever-increasing bloodthirstiness.

Brown had of course planned for Gus Deleo and Jack Royce - unpleasant low-lifes, both of them - to torture Barkley and then lynch him, once they were done with whatever gruesome things they wanted to do to him. Brown _was_ enraged when he was told of the escape. But in some ways this manhunt was just as good. There would be ample opportunity for the fugitive to engage in even more criminal activity, even murder, for which he would be condemned. The citizens' fear of the killer on the loose, the thrill of the chase, the righteousness of his editorials - all this fanned the flames of the people's murderous sentiments into a roaring forest fire. Barkley would be smoked out of those hills in no time and consumed.

* * *

 _Ash Canyon, Nevada, September, 1874_

Deleo was out of breath. It was getting hot, and he disliked walking, much less hiking up a goddamned canyon. His feet were wet and rubbing in his boots, and he wanted a drink and a cigarette.

Jack was fine with the hiking, but the tracking had been difficult, and he wished he at least had his horse here to carry his equipment. He was not a man who traveled light - he would bring three hunting knives when one would do - and it all was getting heavy after a few hours of walking.

The sun was coming directly from behind them now, blazing hot on their necks. The trail passed through a narrow,shadowy bottleneck with high rock walls on either side. Beyond the passage, Jack could see an inviting, shady area by a calm section of the creek. Jack beckoned for Deleo to keep up.

"C'mon, we'll take a break up ahead, looks like a good spot."

Turning, Jack stepped through the passage. He felt a slight tug at his ankle. As he glanced down to see what he had tripped over, the world suddenly exploded in his face and then everything went black.

Deleo stood dumbstruck for a moment. It had all happened so fast, he still wasn't sure why Jack was suddenly knocked flat on his back, unconscious, with blood pouring from his nose. He hadn't heard a gunshot. He hadn't heard anything at all. But now he heard a voice behind him. A soft, lethal voice.

"Good morning, Deleo."

Deleo turned around slowly, squinting, unable to make out much more than the outline of a man with the sun directly behind.

"Drop your gun belt, your pack, rifle, ropes, everything - and put them over there by that tree. Boots too. And the knife you have strapped inside your right pant leg." Deleo complied. "Now do the same for your friend Jack there." Once all the gear had been piled up, Heath walked over to the pile and selected some rope.

Deleo stared disbelieving at him. He looked like a savage, covered in mud, with a rusty butcher knife strapped to his left thigh with what appeared to be rags. He did wear a sidearm, however, and with alarm, Deleo recognized the distinctively decorated Mexican gun belt as belonging to his man who had been guarding their horses. Heath had shifted the holster to the left side, Deleo noticed, and he was carrying his right arm in close to his body. His shirt appeared to be serving as a bandage.

He appeared to be quite comfortable with a gun in his left hand, however, and he gestured with it toward the still-unconscious Jack. "Get over there and tie his hands behind his back, and then drag him over here."

Heath soon had both men securely trussed hand and foot and relieved of their last few hidden weapons, and Jack was starting to wake up. He rolled himself over and gaped at the sight of the muddy savage going through their equipment. It took him a moment to realize the savage was the man they had been hunting. Enraged at having been dropped _again_ by this Barkley bastard, Jack launched into a string of epithets and a colorful description of what the good people of Carson City were going to do to Heath once he was captured. Heath didn't respond, but wordlessly approached Jack and gagged him with his bandana. He then went back to the equipment pile and gathered the ropes he had fashioned into two sturdy nooses, which he threw over the heavy tree limb above them. Heath smiled grimly as Jack and Deleo stared wide-eyed at the gallows that had just appeared before them.


	110. chapter 110

_Clear Creek, Carson City, September, 1874_

The feathered shaft flew fast and straight and buried itself authoritatively in the center of a large prickly pear cactus. Artemis smiled, proud not of her accuracy - she always had that - but of the steady gains she had made in her construction of the tools of her skill. Making bows and arrows had been a game she and Tommy had shared for as long as either of them could remember. For Artemis, however, it had evolved into a vocation. While she would not have been able to say so in words, her developing skills in making and using bows and arrows grew from a process of trial and error that was partly an exercise in scientific engineering, and partly a spiritual quest for mental balance and perfection.

Every aspect deserved her attention, from the choice of wood for the bow and her arrows, to the species of bird that would donate feathers for the fletching. Today she was using a reliable ash longbow she had made at the beginning of the summer. She needed a predictable bow to better test the new set of arrows she had made, using a crude lathe to shave them straight. So far, she was pleased with the result.

She had hiked a ways into the pine woods that followed the course of the creek, seeking solitude. It seemed these days any interaction she had with people outside her immediate family provoked her to protective anger, as the talk about "the killer" and "that Barkley whelp" flowed freely whether at church or school or the general store. The fistfight at the Sunday school had just been the start, though she didn't know it at the time. The things people said kept getting worse. Today in town she had almost challenged a full grown man who was talking about looking forward to lynching her Uncle Heath like he was talking about going to a Friday night dance.

One thing Artemis knew for sure. She liked her Uncle Heath. She was as certain as she could be that he was a good man, and as far as she was concerned, he was family. She was proud to be named after Heath, and the more folks damned him, the prouder she felt. But she didn't like fighting all the time, and besides, she liked to be alone. So here she was, stalking prickly pear up Clear Creek.

"Nice shot, huntress," a soft voice said.

Surprised, Artemis turned in a circle, looking for the source. She saw no one. "Uncle Heath...?" she asked, tentatively, hopefully.

She broke out in a wide smile when she saw him rise up out of the brush. "Nice cover," she said of his mud-colored skin. "I couldn't see you at all."

"These arrows you've made fly very true, at least at this range," he complimented her. "I've been watching."

"I've been spinning them while I sand them down to make them straighter. You can't come home with me, can you?" she said, knowing the answer from the talk in town today. "You're being careful, aren't you? You can't let them catch you. They'll hurt you. They way they talk, it's terrible. I keep getting into fights."

Heath was kneeling in front of her, and reached out to gently turn her face to the side to see the bruises on her jaw and cheek. "Thank you for standing with me, Artemis. But I don't want you to get hurt, either, or be in trouble because of me. Fighting someone who's thinking something wrong doesn't usually get them to change their minds. A lot of times we end up fighting just 'cause _we're_ angry and want to feel like we're doing something."

"They make me so mad. And scared. I don't want them to get you."

"Me neither, huntress. There _is_ something you can do, though, if you're willing to carry a message to your dad for me, and don't tell anyone outside of our families that you saw me."

"I'll ride to him right now," she said eagerly. "I won't tell anyone." She thought for a moment. "Is there some way to get a message back to you? Don't you think that would be good, if we needed to tell you something?"

"You make a good point, Artemis. Come up the creek a little farther, I think I know a spot I can show you where you could leave me a note. Then when I can, I'll come down and check. Now I'm going to give you a message to take, and I want you to memorize it, ok?"

A few minutes later, Artemis was running like a deer through the woods, her long red hair flying behind her. She vaulted bareback onto Pegasus, her chestnut pony, rounded up her brother Tommy to ride with her, and they galloped in to town to find their father. Among other things, Heath had told her where the marshals could find Gus Deleo and Jack Royce.


	111. Chapter 111

_Carson City, same morning, 1874_

"Your 10:30 appointment is here. I have brought them into the conference room to wait for you."

While Brown thought it would have appeared benevolent if he went out to meet his guests himself, he thought it was best to appear busy and not easily accessible at first. He rose, straightened his tie and jacket, and walked to the conference room.

As he stepped in the room, his eye was drawn to the petite, elegant lady sitting at the conference table, looking at her hands folded before her, her eyes hidden by the brim of a fashionable hat. He could not see her face, but he was intrigued. She lifted her head, and the words of greeting died on his lips as he found himself face-to-face with the icy stare of Victoria Barkley. He heard the door close firmly behind him. He turned to see the entire Barkley family - minus Heath, of course - backed by Marshal Smith and Judge Bentley. He also saw several individuals he didn't recognize - two dark exotic-looking women, and a burly man dressed as a blacksmith. Silently he cursed himself for not being more careful. He knew the family was in town, but he had so far relied without incident on his pseudonym, and his anonymity as a member of the grand jury.

 _This is an uncomfortable surprise, but it doesn't change much,_ he thought. _The forest fire is blazing. I don't know if anyone can stop it now._ He tried to recover his composure, and turned back to the little lady.

"Ah - Mrs. Barkley - this _is_ a surprise. I thought I was to meet a doctor this morning about a donor for the hospital. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Mr _. Brown_ , is it, now, Bentell?" hissed Victoria, standing to face him. "Matthew _Brown_?"

"Ma'am, as I'm sure you know, when I left your employment it seemed best to me to resume my former plan of using a new name in order to break with the past. I wanted my work to be evaluated on its own merits. I wanted to succeed or fail because of my work, not leftover feelings about the war. My prosperity here in Carson City, as Matthew Brown, has been entirely legitimate, as is my participation in this grand jury."

" _Leftover feelings_...?" Mike limped over to Bentell, examining his face, taking in the sight of him. "You were a monster. They acquitted you, but you deserved to hang just as much as Wirz. I can't believe you've been living here in my town for all this time. You left me to die when it would have cost you nothing to pull me outta that gully. I would have drowned that day if Heath hadn't saved me. And what did _you_ do? You tried to _shoot_ Heath to stop him from saving me, and then you whipped him for succeeding. And when it was all over, you still tried to kill Heath, and me, and Sam, and Bradley - you remember that? 'Cause I do. And now as far as I can see, you're using this town and the people in it to hunt Heath down and finish the job you couldn't manage ten years ago. Why dontcha take another crack at _me_ while you're at it. Please do. Please."

The two dark-haired women came over to stand by Mike. He calmed as he felt Hadassah's hand on his arm. "Yes, this is Bentell," Rivka confirmed, looking him over. "The self-righteous pederast with his vile dogs. Heath beat you in Carterson, Bentell - you couldn't break him, and you never found us, hiding right under your nose. Heath had your number in Stockton, and you had to leave, because you really couldn't handle working side-by-side with equals as a civilized man. And now here you are yet _again_ , like an angry child having a tantrum, except now you've set the whole house on fire. He will defeat you. Heath will always defeat you, as will we."

"Defeat me? I'm not sure what you mean. I have only been following my conscience as a member of the grand jury." He looked to Judge Bentley with an expression of honest appeal. "Yes, I was not forthcoming about my past knowledge of Heath Barkley, but to be fair, I wasn't asked about it either. I feel I've tried to be impartial and practical about my opinions, and of course, the decisions of the panel are not solely mine."

Nick surged out from behind Victoria, looking like he wanted to rip Bentell's head off. "You lying -"

Smith stepped in. "OK. Nick, _Audra_ -" he added as the sister leaped forward to back her brother's rage. "Let's take a step back here. First things first. Your honor, do you agree we've established - by virtue of these witnesses and by the subject's admission - that Matthew Brown is in fact Matthew Bentell, former commander of Carterson Prison?"

"Yes, I do agree."

Jarrod turned to the judge. "While I have no procedural input into the empaneling of a grand jury, your Honor, it would seem prudent to dismiss Mr Bentell, given his use of an alias to conceal his past affiliations, as well as his alleged history of multiple attempts to kill my client. Does that seem reasonable to you?"

"Yes, it does."

"Further, I would like the Attorney General to comment on the possible criminality of using an alias in this circumstance."

"Agreed."

Smith narrowed his eyes at Bentell. "Sit down." Bentell did so. "Tell me about your connection to Gus Deleo."

"Who?" Bentell said.

Deputy Roberts appeared at the door. "This the guy?" he asked Smith. Smith nodded and beckoned him in, then addressed the room.

"Mr. Roberts and I are going to have a conversation with Mr Bentell. Judge, thank you for making yourself available this morning. Jarrod will drive you back to your office. And the rest of you, I'd suggest you go take a walk and have a nice lunch. I will catch up with you later." He gently touched Victoria's elbow as he escorted her to the door, and she reached over and held his hand briefly before she stepped out.

"I get the feeling Bentell is going to categorically deny any connection to Deleo or the kidnapping," Jarrod said to the judge as they climbed into the surrey.

"Probably," he agreed. "You're gonna have to find the men who took Heath, otherwise Bentell will just stonewall you. Where you going to start looking, though?"

Jarrod clucked to the horse and snapped the reins, and the surrey moved briskly down the street. "Not sure, Walter," he said thoughtfully, as he watched the Peterson twins gallop past him in the opposite direction, heading to intercept their father up the street. "Heath will find some way to contact us, I'm sure of it."


	112. chapter 112

_Marlette Lake, Nevada, September, 1874_

Heath crouched at the shoreline in a sheltered spot, scooping up some water to drink with shaking hands. His anxious eyes scanned the darkening woods and horizon. Using handfuls of the cold, crystal clear water, Heath washed the fresh abrasions and lacerations over his chest and arms, and tried to extract the pieces of buckshot that peppered his skin. He had carefully removed the sleeve-packing from the hole in his right shoulder, and was glad to see the bleeding didn't start up again. He was grateful at least for that.

After the narrow escape he just had, he felt lucky to have gotten away with his life. He had taken a chance descending so close to the town to give his message to Artemis. It seemed every Carson Valley male over the age of fifteen was out hunting him. Many of the groups were inexperienced and disorganized. This also made them, unfortunately, unpredictable.

After saying goodbye to Artemis, Heath had been carefully making his way back to where he had hidden the horse he had borrowed from Jack Royce. Under other circumstances, he would have felt right at home in these woods, but he didn't know the area in detail, and the terrain along the waterways folded into innumerable dead end canyons. As a hunter, he was all too aware of how easily quarry could be trapped in one of these cul de sacs.

He took cover at the sound of a lone horse approaching rapidly. The horse sounded frightened, but not nearly as frightened as his rider. Heath could hear what sounded like a child, begging the horse to stop and yelling for help. The runaway horse passed Heath's hiding spot at the mouth of one of the side canyons at a frantic gallop, then wheeled hard and stopped when he could run no further. The rider - a boy of maybe ten or eleven - flew from the saddle and landed on the rocky ground.

Heath breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the boy crying immediately - at least he wasn't dead or unconscious. He crawled up the ridge a small distance to get a look. The boy was crying, sitting up and holding his leg, which appeared to be bleeding briskly from a deep gash that had torn his jeans from mid-thigh to several inches below his knee. The boy looked at his own hands turning red with blood and fell over in a faint.

Heath hurried over, checking him as best he could for signs of other serious injury, then set about exposing the gash and trying to stop the bleeding. The runaway horse had stayed nearby, fortunately, so Heath grabbed the bedroll and canteen along with a knife from the saddlebag and quickly had the wound rinsed and wrapped tight in strips of bedding, and the boy resting on a blanket instead of the hard ground. He began to wake up.

"Hey," Heath said gently. "That was quite a fall you took. Your horse get spooked by something?"

The boy looked around as his head cleared. "Yeah. A pair of birds came flapping out of the bushes. Stupid horse. Where's my Pa? Ow, my leg." He suddenly remembered all the blood, and was relieved to see it all bandaged when he risked a look down. "Wow, you did that? My name's Robbie."

Heath smiled. "You're gonna be fine, Robbie, so long as you keep that clean and let it heal up. You're gonna have a nice scar, though."

"That don't bother me none." He looked at Heath closely for the first time. His brow furrowed as he took in the sight of the shirtless, mud-covered young man who had appeared out of nowhere to bandage him up. The camouflage only partially concealed the many signs of injury that still covered his torso. He was whip-thin, the clothes he did have on were filthy, and he had a two-day growth of beard. Yet despite all that was alarming and strange about his appearance, his voice was gentle, and Robbie felt himself calming.

"Well, you're plenty brave, son," Heath said, smiling at him. "That's a big horse for you. He usually spooky like that?"

Robbie found himself smiling back. "Yeah, he's a big chicken." They both laughed.

"Robbie! Robbie, where are you, boy?" A man's voice, his fear for his child evident in the rough tones.

"Pa! I'm over here, Pa!" Hearing his father's worry reminded the boy of his own scare, and he began to cry a little again as he heard him approach. The father burst through the brush looking frantic, then stopped in his tracks when he saw Heath kneeling beside his weeping son.

The shotgun in his hand came up, shaky, but pointed right at Heath. "You. It's you. Get away from my son."

Robbie looked up at Heath, shock and realization in his eyes. "It's you? You're Barkley? You're that killer?"

Heath looked down at the boy, his eyes sad. "Yes. No. I'm not a -"

"Get away from my boy. Stand up. Slow. Mack! Ralph! Over here! I got 'im!"

"Robbie," Heath whispered urgently. "Get away from me. Get over there by your dad. I don't want you to get hurt."

Heath could see, in his mind, how this unfortunate meeting in the woods could go. He knew, even left-handed, he was fast enough to draw and gun down this farmer-vigilante. Heath knew also that there was no way he would willingly shoot Robbie's father right before the boy's eyes. He could see the farmer was jumpy, unfamiliar with his weapon, and would flinch when the triggers were pulled. He would flinch, and that buckshot could go virtually anywhere, including into Robbie. There was _no_ way Heath was going to let that happen because of him.

"Robbie. Please. Move away."

Hearing the urgency in his voice, Robbie complied, scooting himself in his father's direction as best he could. He looked back at Heath, eyes wide. Heath straightened, slowly, keeping his hands up, his eyes on the farmer, but watching to be sure the boy was moving clear.

"Drop that gun belt."

Heath unbuckled the gun belt and let it fall, hearing the crashing of the farmer's companions approaching. Heath was ready the moment the farmer turned his head to call over his shoulder, as he knew he would. The second the farmer took his eyes off him, Heath dove back into the brush, weaving between the trees and scrambling up and over the ridge behind him.

He heard Robbie cry out. "No!"

Buckshot pinged off the rocks and splintered trees around him, with more than a few pellets ripping into him as well. He didn't see Robbie push his father's muzzle up just as he fired, probably saving Heath a good bit more buckshot in his back as he fled.

Rolling painfully down the far side of the ridge, Heath regained his feet, wincing and holding his right arm in close to his aching chest. He ran toward his waiting horse. Throwing himself into the saddle, bent over from coughing, he kneed the gelding around and took off upland at a gallop.

The group of farmers took quite a bit longer to get sorted out, remounted, and after his trail, but come after him they did. Heath pulled up on a tree-covered ridge to look back on his pursuers. He saw the group stop, confused at a point where Heath had covered his tracks. As they hesitated there, they were joined by a group of three men, riding in a tight formation. One of these dropped to the ground in search of the lost trail. Heath frowned. This new group seemed decidedly professional - bounty hunters maybe, or military scouts. Sure enough, they soon had his tracks, and were moving up in his direction.

Looking north, Heath saw yet another group angling southwest in his direction, riding in formation, and to his south, a more disorganized group moving northwest and fanning out.

" _Damn_." He looked upland to the timberline and the snowfields that lay below the mountain peaks. The hunting parties were closing him in, forcing him to move uphill and out of the cover of the treeline, where he'd be exposed and contending with the cold, snow, and thinning air.

"Damn, damn, _damn_ ," he muttered, scowling now down at his horse. He sighed, realizing he was short on options. He rode forward, sidling up to an outcropping of rock. Crouching on the saddle, Heath reached up with his left hand and swung himself into a crevice in the rock wall. Groaning with the effort, unable to use his right arm, he braced himself there and swatted the horse away. Then he worked his way laboriously up the rock face, his lungs and muscles burning from the thin, cold air.

A few hours later, Heath lay flat at the edge of a snowfield, shivering in the cold as the sun sank behind him. He was coughing painfully and found himself much more short of breath than he normally would be at that altitude. His eyes scoured the landscape to the southeast. The search parties carried torches now, and he could see that they had tracked and now captured his borrowed horse. The diversion had given him enough of a gap to get north of the perimeter they had tried to set to enclose him, but Heath could see them regrouping already to get back on his trail.

 _I can't keep this up forever,_ he thought desperately. _I have to end this somehow. They're not gonna let me rest, and they're not gonna let me get away. I'm gonna die up here, or I have to get to the one who's the linch pin of this whole mess._

A little while later, down at the lake shore, Heath shrugged into his shirt, grimacing as he rotated his right shoulder. Far to the south, above the lake, he could see a winding line of torches descending. Time to get moving again. He was once again on the run, with no horse, no gun, and no one to watch his back. _I can't win this game_ , he thought. _But maybe_ _I can change the rules - if I can stay ahead of them long enough to try_.


	113. chapter 113

_Carson City, dawn, September, 1874_

"I could never leave if I didn't know you three were here to make sure he gets home safe." Hadassah looked at Victoria, Audra, and Rivka in turn, her eyes full of worry.

"You have to get your family back home," Victoria said. "We'll send word the minute we have any news. And we'll see you in the summer, won't we? _All_ of us."

"Yes, I won't hear the end of it from the boys if we don't."

"Jarrod and I will make sure Rivka is settled in San Francisco when the time comes, you can be sure of that. It just so happens that the Barkley family has become a major donor and supporter of the Pacific Dispensary for Women and Children."

Hadassah embraced Victoria warmly. "It is such a blessing that Heath had found his family with you," she said.

"He's been a blessing to us," Victoria responded.

Hadassah hugged Audra with a smile. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you more this summer," she said.

"Me too." Audra looked up and waved to the two boys gazing at her from the windows of the waiting stagecoach. They both clutched their chests and pretended to swoon.

Victoria and Audra crossed the street to the livery to wait for Rivka as she bid her mother goodbye.

The two dark-haired women stood close, speaking seriously. "I will miss you, Mama. I am so glad you came. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You would have done just what you were doing, Dr. Levi. I am so proud of you," Hadassah whispered. "You are the strongest, smartest person I know, and that includes your father, but don't tell him that. Though he'd agree with me." She kissed Rivka's cheek. "Now you all get that boy of yours home safe."

Audra and Victoria watched as they embraced one more time. Rivka blew a kiss to the stagecoach, then turned away, wiping her eyes, to cross over to the livery.

"Is she comfortable on horseback?" Victoria asked. "It's going to be a bit rugged riding up the canyon with the men."

Audra laughed. "Oh yes, she's comfortable." She nodded toward Rivka. "Watch this."

Victoria saw Rivka walk to her horse, unwrap the rein from the rail, then, grabbing the horn with both hands, she vaulted up into the saddle in one smooth movement. Victoria laughed with her daughter.

"She had a good teacher," Audra said smiling. "Heath said she was a quick learner! She told me she didn't even realize for a good while that most people use their stirrups to get on board."

As the three women mounted up, they were joined by Nick, Jarrod, and Mike, as well as Artemis and Tommy riding double on their pony.

"Um, Dr. Levi, Heath gave me a message for you," Artemis said seriously.

"What is it?"

The little girl concentrated for a minute to deliver it word-for-word. "He said, _I might have found a cave I can use to get out of this mess, if you ride upland to find me. It's your turn to choose. Just don't ride alone, and be careful, because the search parties will follow you_. And then he said, _I love you_." She blushed a little at this last message, but she looked proud at having completed the mission Heath had given her.

Rivka frowned, playing the words over in her mind. _A cave. My turn to choose._ She took a deep breath and teared up a little, remembering. "He wants us to ride up into the hills. He knows we'd be followed. He wants us to draw them off."

"Draw them off? So he can do what? Escape?" Nick stared up at the mountains, frustrated and worried. "If he's going to send a message, why wouldn't he just tell us where he is so we can go get him?"

Audra shook her head. "He must not think it's safe, Nick. There are so many guns up there now hunting him. If we tried to bring him out, they'd be shooting at us too."

"Well _let_ them, damnit! I want a chance to take 'em head on."

Victoria agreed with Audra. "Nick, you know Heath wouldn't draw his family into a shootout if he had any way to avoid it." But she was frowning up at the hills as well. "I'm certain Rivka is right, he wants a diversion. I don't know what he plans to do, but I feel we should trust him."

"I'm worried about what he's planning," Jarrod said bluntly. He paused, looking gravely at his family. "I'm worried about _him_. I'd trust my life to Heath's instincts, in fact I have, several times. But how much can a man take? Any guesses as to how long it's been since he slept? Or ate? It's freezing up there at night. He may be injured again. He still can't breathe worth a damn. How can we expect him to be making rational decisions at this point?"

"I know he'd expect it of himself," Rivka said quietly. "I will follow his lead. He wants to come home. He doesn't want to run."

Nick brought his horse up by hers. "He's had plenty of chances to run. Hell, I would've run with him."

"He was in pretty bad shape the day he had the sense to get you all up into that cave," Mike said, coming up next to Rivka as well. "You remember? Bentell had decided to interrogate him, locked him in that cell with those attack dogs. He was all torn up. I remember telling him to get down below to see your mama."

"Yes, I remember. It was terrible. I could see in his eyes it was terrible, what Bentell had done to him. But the second you rang that alarm and we saw we were trapped down there, Heath knew exactly what to do. I was furious with him afterward, but he was right."

Mike looked at the shocked faces of the Barkleys, who had been following their exchange.

"Dogs...?" Jarrod asked, hesitantly.

"He didn't tell you about that part, I guess. I should leave it at that, then. Another one of the many things Citizen Bentell should hang for, if you ask me. But Heath kept his head, even then." He paused for a moment as a disturbing thought came to him. "If they come after him up there with dogs, though - I don't know. He might well stop being so damned civilized."

Looking up the street, Mike waved. "Here come the marshals. I've gotta get these two junior deities home to their mother, or _I'm_ gonna be sleeping in the hills tonight."

Smith rode up with Ramos and Roberts, and the whole group headed out of town to the northwest, following Artemis' directions to Ash Canyon, where they expected to find the men that kidnapped Heath from the prison transport. There was little conversation as they traveled. Their departure and their apparent course was noted by many eyes and the information passed along.

By midmorning, the sun was behind the party as they came around a bend in the canyon and could see the riverbank up ahead where Heath had ambushed Jack Royce and Guy Deleo.

"Oh, no..." Victoria breathed.

A terrible feeling of dread and sadness came over the group as they looked at the three men hanging motionless from the large tree limb that arched across their path.

Roberts and Ramos shared a look of consternation before they spurred their horses forward to the gallows.

Smith remained shocked into stillness for a moment, then he finally took a shallow breath, willing himself to move forward. "You all best remain here for the moment," he instructed the group. Then he reluctantly turned to join his deputies.

"Heath, boy, what have you done...?" he pleaded softly, under his breath. "Please, please tell me you didn't do this." A crushing sense of grief weighed down upon him as he approached the hanging bodies.

Mourning was replaced by overwhelming relief, when he saw all three men were alive, trussed up and suspended from the tree limb like flies in a spider web. Ramos and Roberts were practically laughing as they set about cutting the distressed kidnappers down. Smith inspected the area, and found the spring-loaded sapling that Heath had rigged as a booby trap in the narrows of the trail. Smith shook his head, his grey eyes scanning the terrain up and around the canyon where they stood. Rivka came up beside him.

"We have to bring these yahoos back to town and lock 'em up," he said.

"We are going to ride on upland to look for Heath," she said.

He looked down into her serious dark eyes. "You be careful." He noted that every single Barkley saddle was equipped with a bedroll, a canteen, saddlebags, and a rifle. "Looks like you have an excellent escort."

"That I do, Marshal."


	114. chapter 114

_Carson City, September, 1874_

From the shelter of a stand of pines, Heath looked down at the group of five riders making their way up the winding canyon trail far below. _That's my life down there_. _My family, my love, my whole life._

He sank to his knees, his left arm wrapped around a tree trunk for support. Even at this minor altitude he was terribly short of breath, which he knew was not normal for him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the double vision that kept coming and going. He watched the riders move on, his desire to go down to them so intense he felt he could just kneel there and howl his pain into the empty sky.

He could see Carson City from his vantage point. He could see the several search parties covering the hills northwest of town converging now on his family's trail, creating a path for him to move outside their perimeter.

Heath hadn't slept since the brief rest he had by the creek the night he escaped. He was aware he was moving and thinking sluggishly. He'd foraged a bit of food here and there, but the hunters on his trail now were expert trackers, and they'd given him no slack at all.

It appeared the three bounty hunters who had joined up with the farmers were now leading the group following his family, but there were two new trackers on his trail that were matching his every move and getting inexorably closer. They'd likely have him by sunset at the rate they were closing. Heath needed to get back down to the valley and end this thing, and quickly. If any of these hunters caught him up here, he expected no arrest and trial. He expected a summary mountain execution.

With a last aching look at his family, Heath pushed himself up, keeping a hand on the tree for a moment till he felt steady on his feet. He checked the position of the two riders tracking him, wondering, not for the first time, who they were. Then he turned east and began the descent into the valley.


	115. chapter 115

_From too much love of living,_

 _From hope and fear set free,_

 _We thank with brief thanksgiving_

 _Whatever gods may be_

 _That no life lives for ever;_

 _That dead men rise up never;_

 _That even the weariest river_

 _Winds somewhere safe to sea._

 _"The Garden of Proserpine"_

 _Algernon Charles Swinburne_

 _Carson City, September, 1874_

As he ran, he tried to remember what he was running towards. He tried to see in his mind what his life had been even just a few months ago. This running, the fear, the pain in his body, this exile from love and comfort and freedom and safety - this was becoming his whole reality. He knew such thinking was the effect of exhaustion. Still, he felt like he was sinking into quicksand, sinking deeper the more he struggled, and forgetting that he had been a free man not so long ago.

 _This is wrong, this is wrong, this is all wrong_ , he repeated to himself as he ran. He was struggling to breathe, struggling to keep moving, all the while looking over his shoulder. No matter what he did, the riders stayed on his trail, getting ever closer, coming faster, and now Heath was pretty sure there were four of them. The Four Horsemen, he thought, and now that became the repeating, taunting refrain in his head. _The Four Horsemen, The Four Horsemen, who are they, who are they -_

He had tried every trick he knew to lose his pursuers, at least every trick he was physically capable of at this point, to no avail. He had to shake them at least long enough to get where he needed to go in town. He had made it to the river, though, and he waded in, pushing upstream as far as he could as he crossed.

 _Famine, Plague, War, and... what was the fourth one? No, it's Conquest, War, Famine, and Death. The white horse of power and conquest, the red horse of war, the black horse of famine, and the pale horse of death. One or the other's been after me most of my life, but it seems they're ganging up on me now._

He stumbled a bit in the current as he stepped into a deeper channel, and he had a moment of panic. Heath could swim, sure, on a nice day, in calm water, when he wasn't half dead and half out of his mind. Drowning suddenly seemed like a real possibility, when he could feel the power of the river pushing on his tired, unsteady body. He suddenly felt very small and very alone in the gathering dark, the shore so far away in either direction. He stopped where he was, trying to find his balance in the cold, moving water.

Heath had always loved rivers, as long as he could remember. He was drawn to them to calm his mind, to strengthen his soul. He sought them in the wilderness for food, water, a guide to help him find his way. And now, when he had become the hunted one, the river had become a place to hide, to help him escape, the one thing that might obscure his passage from the men who pursued him.

He slowed his breathing so he could listen to the water and the shadowed hills to the west. He heard the river flowing and he heard horses coming at a brisk canter. Turning slowly in a circle, he searched the dark for the four torches he knew he would see descending to the river valley. They'd reach the ford in minutes. Heath felt suddenly he might weep with frustration and the sense of defeat that was pressing down upon him.

 _Mama, I'm so tired, so tired - I need to rest, please, can't I just rest, for a minute -_

 _Heath, baby, there's no point in cryin' about it. There's only one way to get home, my love, and that way ain't standing here waiting to be hung from a tree. As for resting, well, rest is coming for you, of one kind or another, one way or another. Even the weariest river, my son, winds somewhere safe to sea. All you can do is keep moving, do what seems true and right. If they catch you, they catch you._

 _Maybe they're right. Would've been simpler to just be the killer they say I am._

Rivka's words rose warm and strong into his mind. _The evils that have befallen us sometimes do come back again. We have to battle them, again. But it is not you who is stuck._

He staggered again in the current, the water rising to his chest, pushing insistently, dragging on his clothes. The enveloping cold slowed his muscles, numbed his skin, inviting sleep, rest, an end to struggling.

 _We rise together, cowboy._

He nodded then, a small smile on his lips. The torches descended toward the river's edge. Heath watched them for a moment, then turned himself back upstream, moving silently, carefully, to the far shore.

The full moon had risen bright, illuminating the snow fields of the mountain peaks and glittering along the stream of the irrigation ditch through which he ran. He was inside the city limits now, skirting several prosperous spreads whose solid stone houses could be seen across wide pastures. The extent of the hunt for him was an advantage now, as he came upon a deserted bunkhouse and workshed. Here he might have a chance to dry off and maybe even find some food, depending on how long it took for the Four Horsemen to pick up his trail on this side of the river. He knew it was a matter of when, not if. He just hoped he could do what he needed to do before they caught him, as he was certain they would.

After checking the windows to make sure the outbuildings were unoccupied, Heath slipped inside and was happy to find a few bits of food and even a sink with a hand pump for fresh water and some soap. He stripped off his shirt and washed himself, extracting a few more pieces of buckshot in the process. He soaped his face and hair and shaved with a razor he found by the sink.

 _Might as well at least try not to look like a wild animal_ , he thought.

Buttoning his damp shirt again, Heath stepped out of the shack and listened, looking west. No riders yet. He fought the urge to just lie down on one of the bunks and sleep. The path that led between the fields was dry and well traveled, the sandstone gravel bright in the moonlight, but the windbreaks that had been planted alongside gave him some cover as he ran toward the house in the distance.


	116. chapter 116

" _And_ _one who is just of his own free will shall not lack for happiness; and he will never come to utter ruin._ "

 _Aeschylus_

 _Carson_ _City, 10 PM, September, 1874_

"Thank you, Bill, appreciate it. Good night."

Luther Buckner handed off his reins to the older man who had been there waiting for him at his front door. Bill Janis, a widower, and his son Luke, had worked for the Buckner family in Kentucky for many years. When Luther decided to move west to carve out his own place in the family's illustrious history, Bill and Luke offered to come along, and they had been loyal and invaluable companions over the past few years.

Luther was a young man still. He lived a frugal bachelor's life, for the most part, one far more Spartan than he would have enjoyed had he stayed in Kentucky and pursued his legal career nurtured under the wings of his family. He valued his wardrobe and his grooming, but he was not a thoughtless dandy. He was deeply educated and hard-working. He was politically ambitious, true, but he also felt himself to be a standard-bearer, here in this brand-new State of Nevada, of the ideals under which his family had fought and served since the Revolutionary War.

His family had been divided in their loyalties during the Civil War, some serving as generals for the Confederacy, and some stepping forward as political leaders for the Union. Luther himself sympathized with the latter, but he had been eager to move out west, away from the unpleasant bigotry that still pervaded the political atmosphere back home.

Despite his impressive title as State Attorney General, Luther carried out his duties in a single office, and only just this year received a budget to hire a secretary to assist with preparing briefs. Bill and Luke acted as caretakers of Buckner's home in Carson City, keeping his stable, running errands, and keeping the house and Luther in good running order.

Luther stepped inside, stopping at a table and mirror in the foyer. He hung up his hat, loosened his tie, and raked his hands through his hair, looking at his tired face in the mirror. _What a day,_ he thought, shaking his head. _I've got a lot of writing to do._ He walked into his sitting room, where Luke had kept a low fire burning in the fireplace, and poured himself a small glass of very good Kentucky bourbon. He leaned on the mantle, feeling the liquor warm his chest. The warmth was an illusion, he knew. He had learned that lesson at a young age, when a cousin of his had nearly died one winter, convinced whiskey would keep him warm when they were hunting and caught out in a sudden snowstorm. Luther generally had good instincts when it came to distinguishing reality from easy illusions, but tonight he didn't feel those instincts were helping him much as he considered the choices before him.

He had just come from a lengthy meeting with Judge Bentley and Deputy Marshal Ramos, a serious young man who was John Smith's right hand and currently the acting director of the prison. The three men had reviewed the current status of the several complex and interrelated indictments now on his desk.

A new case had unexpectedly arisen over the past few days, and now Luther found himself tasked with the indictment of one Matthew Bentell, AKA Matthew Brown, on charges of perjury, obstruction of justice, and conspiracy to commit kidnapping and murder. When questioned by Marshal Smith and his deputy, Bentell had denied all but the charges of using a false name while under oath. The three men arrested up in Ash Canyon by the federal marshals, however, all eagerly gave testimony that they were acting under the direction of Mr. Brown/Bentell. That, together with motive arising from Bentell's history, led quickly to the decision to arrest Bentell and proceed with the conspiracy indictment.

Mr. Bentell - who until yesterday Buckner had thought of as the eminently stable and civic-minded Mr. Brown - reportedly went to pieces as he was conducted through the routine intake process at the state prison, and required restraint and sedation. Buckner had heard, further, that there were several inmates with either personal or family experience of Carterson who were eager to "welcome" Mr. Bentell to the Nevada State Prison.

Buckner sighed and shook his head again in disbelief, then finished his glass of bourbon. Luther himself had a close cousin who had died in that New Mexico hellhole. He had no reservations about proceeding with this prosecution, thought he wondered about Bentell's chances of surviving until the trial.

Buckner's case against Risley was prepared and ready to go. Risley was stewing in federal custody, cooperating poorly with his beleaguered attorney, and for the most part conducting himself like an enraged and entitled dictator. Without his wealth - which was also now in federal custody - Risley was becoming increasingly isolated, with few sympathetic ears at his current location. Buckner fully expected that case to conclude with Risley's execution, especially with Peterson's detailed and credible testimony - -

\- - which brought him back around to the whole thorny problem of Mr. Heath Barkley. Luther frowned in frustration, and decided to pour himself another bourbon. He flopped down in an armchair by the fire, scowling into the flames.

The position of Attorney General was an elected office, subject to voting every two years. Buckner had just been reelected last year, by a slimmer margin than previous. The influence of both Risley and Bentell on public opinion was a factor he monitored closely. Nonetheless, he was not too worried about prosecuting those two gentlemen - Buckner's crusade against corrupt public servants always played well with voters.

It was this Barkley mess that was putting him at serious political risk. The virulent calumny that had been visited upon that young man had taken on a public life of its own, making it difficult to sort out fact from illusion. Opinions, fears, and dire predictions abounded as to Barkley's guilt, his breeding, his association with Jews, his motives, and of course the danger he represented to society.

Buckner mulled over what he knew, or thought he knew, about the man he was to prosecute. Heath was a bastard who grew up desperately poor in a mining town, unacknowledged by his wealthy father. Most assumed he was unwelcome in the Barkley home, and that they were subject to blackmail. He was a drifter from a very young age, and had a clandestine and apparently dishonorable military history. There was the disturbing efficiency of the killing at Leviathan. Buckner himself was frequently told that he would certainly be Barkley's next target, and that he should take steps to protect himself.

Set against this malignant characterization was - for example - the testimony of two federal marshals that Barkley had saved their lives, without using lethal force, at considerable risk to himself, and at a juncture when he should have been running for his freedom. Mike Peterson, a well-liked local blacksmith, vehemently defended Barkley's character and honorable service as a soldier to anyone who would listen. And just earlier this evening, while one of Buckner's neighbors was relating to him a frightening tale of the feral fugitive attacking his young son up in the hills, the boy himself came running (limping, really) to let Luther know that Barkley had in fact come to his rescue and bandaged his bleeding leg after he was thrown from his horse.

Then there was Heath's family. By everything Luther could see, the Barkleys were highly intelligent, respectable, successful people. To say they were fiercely loyal to their illegitimate family member would be an understatement. Luther could see no evidence that Heath Barkley was the fortune-hunting interloper the newspapers had described in such lurid detail.

One pattern Luther had begun to discern, however. Barkley's most vehement and bloodthirsty accusers appeared to be people who had no personal knowledge of the man.

Buckner had to write his final brief, and outline for the grand jury the charges he wished to bring against Heath Barkley. Luther had heard - and devised himself - arguments for charges ranging from multiple counts of first degree murder, to voluntary manslaughter, to justifiable homicide and no criminal charges at all. If he proceeded with the most serious indictment - five counts of first degree murder - he felt sure with the current mood he would have strong public support and obtain a quick conviction. Further, if Barkley did enter a plea of no contest, as his attorney suggested he would, only Jarrod Barkley's skill and experience in the courtroom would then prevent a sentence of death. Heath Barkley would spend the rest of his life in prison, and Buckner would certainly be reelected.

 _Enough,_ Luther thought. _I'm not going to figure this out tonight._

He rose, feeling stiff and tired, and climbed the stairs to his rooms. He was calmed by the familiar sounds of Luke cleaning up in the kitchen, and the light of Bill's lantern out by the stable.

He stepped into his large dressing room. As he was hanging up his jacket, something caught his eye on the table by the window. Turning up the gas lamp, he saw it was his shotgun.

 _That's odd,_ he thought. _That should be in the cabinet downstairs._ He picked it up, even more puzzled when he found it was loaded.

"I put that there for you so you would know I wasn't here to threaten you," he heard. Buckner whirled around with the shotgun in his hands, his heart racing. The voice was low, rough, with a familiar accent. "I'm sorry for breaking into your home like this. I didn't know how else I could talk with you."

In the shadows behind the dressing room door, Luther could see a thin, exhausted-looking young man leaning against the wall. The man was remaining quite still, making no threatening moves, but was watching him closely.

"Talk with me? Why?" Luther had little personal experience with physical confrontation, but he figured his weapon ought to be ready, so he ratcheted the slide of the shotgun, keeping the barrel pointed at the fugitive who had been plaguing his thoughts all evening. He took a step toward the door, thinking to call down for Luke.

"Please," Heath said, "before you call your men, just - just give me a minute?" He still hadn't moved from the wall, and Luther was struck by the simple vulnerability he could hear in his voice.

"I know you have your two men here at the house, and there are four riders that have been closing on me all night. They should find their way here pretty soon. So you won't have me on your hands for very long."

"OK," Luther said warily. "You have a minute."

"I've heard about your family," Heath said. "My mama was from Kentucky, originally. I was born in California, but it was just the two of us when I was little, and people tell me I talk like her."

Buckner nodded. That explained the familiar accent.

"It's an honorable family, the Buckners. It's a proud heritage you have."

"Yes. And...?"

 _And..?_ _That's a damn good question,_ Heath thought to himself. _What am I doing here?_ It had seemed so important to get himself here, to see this man face-to-face. And now...now what?

"I know you've chosen to be a public servant, when you could have taken an easier path. I tried to learn a little about you, hoping I could get an idea of what you would do with - with me -"

Heath struggled to concentrate. He was looking at his last chance to salvage his life as he knew it, a chance that could slip so easily out of his reach. His eyes shifted from Buckner's face to the shotgun now aimed steadily at him. He drew a breath to speak, but a deep, painful cough seized him instead and pain gripped his chest. The shotgun doubled and blurred in his vision. Heath steadied himself desperately against the wall as the room moved and tilted around him, certain that if he swayed and fell in Buckner's direction, he'd likely be shot.

Heath closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to stay on his feet. Then he met Buckner's wary gaze. "You have my life in your hands," he said softly. "I thought if I could - if you would talk with me, you could see I'm not the monster your people think I am. I'm not here to beg, or to threaten you. I can't demand anything.

"I came to you because I don't know how else to prove that I'm not running away from this. I hold myself accountable for the choices I made. I believe in the office that you hold. I believe in our system of justice."

Still out of breath, Heath paused, looking at the floor, suddenly fighting not to weep. "I enlisted when I was barely 13. I fought in the war for three years. I saw so much death and suffering. I killed a lot of men. When I left Carterson, I would have been happy never to have to point a weapon at another human being ever again, and I still feel that way. When I rode to Leviathan, I got there as fast at I could. I didn't want to kill anyone. If I could've gotten there in time to warn my brothers off, maybe it could've ended there."

He looked up at Buckner again, grief plain in his expression. "With the way folks are thinking about me, your best move, politically, is to bury me. I get that. Jarrod would give you a good fight, but you'd win in the end."

Heath was feeling the weight of his own words now. He could see that bleak future as clear as day. He sagged against the wall, drained, defeated by Buckner's silence.

"I made my choices to save Jarrod and Nick," he said finally. "I didn't see any other way. Maybe I was wrong. I want to trust you to seek what's true and right. I want to trust the court to judge me under the law."

The sound of several riders entering the graveled yard sounded clearly through the open dressing room window. Luther could hear Bill calling out to them as he hurried up from the stable, and Luke opening the front door. He kept his eyes and his shotgun on the fugitive, waiting.

Heath looked back at him and then bowed his head, his expression now calm, resigned, and completely exhausted. Keeping one hand on the wall for balance, he sank to his knees and stayed there, eyes on the floor, but his sight directed at something a thousand miles away.

Luke appeared urgently in the doorway, and was relieved to see his employer appeared unharmed and in control of the situation. Glancing anxiously at the kneeling fugitive, he whispered something in Buckner's ear. Luther raised his eyebrows, surprised. Then he nodded, and Luke ran down to bring up the riders in the courtyard.


	117. Chapter 117

_Here, where the world is quiet;_

 _Here, where all trouble seems_

 _Dead winds' and spent waves' riot_

 _In doubtful dreams of dreams;_

 _I watch the green field growing_

 _For reaping folk and sowing,_

 _For harvest-time and mowing,_

 _A sleepy world of streams._

 _I am tired of tears and laughter,_

 _And men that laugh and weep;_

 _Of what may come hereafter_

 _For men that sow to reap:_

 _I am weary of days and hours,_

 _Blown buds of barren flowers,_

 _Desires and dreams and powers_

 _And everything but sleep._

 _"The Garden of Proserpine"  
_ _Algernon Charles Swinburne  
_ _  
_

 _Carson City, 11 PM, September, 1874_

Heath waited for whatever was to come. He had done what he could, and he was weary beyond measure. His gaze moved over the smooth and well-fitted planking of the wood floor upon which he knelt. A small, irrepressible part of him appreciated the workmanship, even as he listened to the sounds of the Four Horsemen dismounting in the courtyard below.

Shutting out the sounds of approaching captivity, Heath closed his eyes and instead remembered Rivka wrapping her strong arms around him, felt her kiss, her hair, her laugh. He smiled to himself. He ached to be with his family, his friends. He missed his horse, the smell of saddle leather, a long day's work, Nick slapping him on the back, Victoria slipping her arm through his as they walked. He thought of Audra, challenging his cynicism with the strength of her compassion. Jarrod always trying to understand him on a deeper level. The joy of reuniting with Rivka's family. He was so blessed, even if he was to be taken from them right now, tonight.

It crossed his mind that he should try to get back on his feet to face whoever was coming in the front door to take him, but he didn't think he could manage it, and it seemed an empty gesture besides. He wondered who they were, and whether this was a killing party or an arrest-and-lock-him-up-again party. Judging by Buckner's reaction, Heath was feeling more hopeful of this being a lawful capture. He didn't think the AG would so calmly defer to a group of vigilante executioners. So that was good news, maybe. Heath knew he could easily end up hanged by a court of law, but he'd rather that death, than some messy, incompetent, possibly drawn-out lynching back in the woods.

He shook his head, realizing he was merely distracting himself with morbid speculation. Boots were running up the stairs. Heath looked up at Buckner one last time, but the light was behind him, and he could discern no facial expression to tell him what his fate might be. _I'm done_ , Heath thought sadly. He was drifting off, and he leaned a shoulder against the wall. He bowed his head again, his right arm wrapped protectively around his chest, his left hand braced on the floor, and closed his eyes.

"Luther!" boomed an energetic voice. "Luther, what the _hell_ are you doing, pointing a shotgun at this poor boy?"

"Waiting for you to get here, I guess. Frank! This is a surprise! What are you doing here?"

More voices rose and fell in the room. Strong arms came around his shoulders, lowering him to the floor. Heath fought for a moment, briefly fearful, until he came back to himself and began to recognize the voices he heard.

"Heath. Heath, look at me! Are you okay? Jarrod, help me lay him down, careful -"

"I got him, Nick - Luther, you got some blankets we could use?"

"Heath, hey, little brother, there you are. We been chasing after you for a day and a night. Jeez, did you ever give us a run for the money. Frank and John here were tearing their hair out trying to track you!"

His head swimming, Heath squinted at his loud brother, trying to get his blurry face into focus. "Well I sure wish I'd known it was you all breathin' down my neck all that time. I woulda stopped and done some fishing, maybe taken a nap," he joked weakly. His grin faded and he looked gravely at his brothers, and then beyond them to John Smith and Frank Sawyer, both now in serious conversation with the AG. "Boy howdy, I never imagined it would be you showing up here. I was done and gone. I'm hoping this means I at least won't be hanged tonight."

"I think we can say that for sure," Jarrod said, his hand warm on Heath's shoulder. "There are some developments we need to catch you up on that you missed while you were gallivanting through the mountains."

"Oh, is _that_ what I was doing...?" Heath looked surprised at Nick. "Coulda sworn I was running for my life. Thank you for clarifying that."

Smith and Sawyer came over. "I'd say it's good to see you, Heath, but _damn_ , son, you've looked a sight better than you do right now."

"Hi, Frank. Good to see you too. You and big John here scared the hell outta me up in those hills."

"Well you tuckered us out, and we're getting old, so I hope that makes us even," Smith said, his gruff voice belying the relief he was feeling that they had Heath back safe. "I think you need a meal and some sleep, son, and Luther is of a mind that his house may be the safest place for you right now."

Buckner unloaded the shotgun and handed it to Bill to put away. Then, kneeling down, he extended his hand to Heath, who was looking a bit stunned. "Let me help you up. I'll help your brothers get you settled in the guest room. Then Luke and I can bring you up something to eat and drink." Luther looked at the deep wound in Heath right shoulder. "I understand there's a doctor traveling with your family? I think you might be in need of her attention as well."

That suggestion made Nick laugh out loud as the three men helped Heath to his feet and steadied him there. Heath blushed, and Jarrod and Luther looked puzzled at each other. Heath looked up at Nick and started to say something, but then just shook his head, exasperated but unable to completely suppress an answering grin. "OK, OK," Nick said, still chuckling. "Let's get this boy some supper."


	118. Chapter 118

_"[Thus] does an angel seem to arise before a man and lead him by the hand out of all the wards of the prison._... _Shall_ _not the heart which has received so much, trust the Power by which it lives? May it not quit other leadings, and listen to the Soul that has guided it so gently and taught it so much, secure that the future will be worthy of the past?"_

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 _Carson City, dawn, September, 1874_

Heath found Frank Sawyer asleep in a chair outside the guestroom. He smiled remorsefully at his old friend as he silently crossed the hall and descended the broad wooden stairs to the back porch.

The full moon glowed in shades of coral, melting down behind the Sierras. Heath imagined briefly she was reflecting the warm colors of a South Pacific beach somewhere far across the ocean. Closer at hand, he pictured Tahoe, his mother and his sister and his love sheltering there, and wondered if any of them were yet awake and looking at the moon.

He had slept, not well, but that didn't surprise him. It was enough for now. He knew it would take time for him to stand down from this protracted war in which he had found himself, if in fact it was even coming to a close. He was afraid to hope, reluctant yet to begin the process of removing the armor piece by piece. He was accustomed, for now, to the weight of it. More painful than injury, once removed, was the burden of putting it back on. He looked at the moon, and he did hope, in spite of himself.

He stepped off the wide porch of the farm house and walked to the pasture fence, leaning his arms upon the top rail. He let his mind rest within the familiar sight of horses grazing in the quiet dawn.

This man, this prosecutor for the State of Nevada, had given him refuge in his home last night, a fact Heath still found difficult to believe. There had been no further discussion of the matter, and so Heath was left to wonder what his fate would be once Buckner presented his case to the grand jury today.

Buckner and his men had retreated from view once Heath was settled with his brothers in attendance. Nick and Jarrod stayed close at hand, filling him in on some of what had occurred since he had been on the run. The day prior, the women had led the bounty hunters to Lake Tahoe, where Victoria knew of a fishing cabin belonging to an old friend of Tom's. He was more than happy to have them as guests and stand guard as they rested. There the women stayed, while Nick and Jarrod raced back under cover of night to rendezvous with the two marshals tracking Heath. It was clear to Heath this was only part of the story, but as long as he knew the women were safe, he didn't have the energy to hear much more.

He remembered sitting on the bed, as Nick dressed the injury to his right arm and extracted the rest of the buckshot. He remembered Jarrod's arms holding him, Nick's warm hands on his back, and despite the pain, he was pretty sure he fell asleep with his head on Jarrod's shoulder. When a nightmare woke him a short time later ( _the mob, the crowd pressing in, grabbing and gnawing at his right arm, howling, and he saw they all bore the faces of snarling dogs),_ he was lying in bed, and they were both still there to sit with him until the panic faded.

A little after midnight, Nick and Jarrod rode out to get some sleep at the hotel before they were to head up to Tahoe at dawn to retrieve their mother, sister and Rivka. Heath remembered them leaving, and as he faded again into restless dreams, he was aware of the two lawmen now standing watch outside the room. Even knowing the deep friendship he felt with both men, he thought it likely they were there to contain him, and bring him back to prison. This thought brought no rancor or fear. Heath wanted to stand and be judged for his decisions, his actions. He had chosen to trust in himself. He had chosen to believe that if he were true and honest, he would be answered in kind, whatever that might mean for him. He wanted an end to this war.

There were more nightmares toward morning ( _the snarling mob again, hissing in his ear, "we have all night to get this arm off," but now he was blind)_. Heath thought he remembered John at his side then, turning up the gas lamp by the bed so he could see, lifting him up from the floor and steadying his shaking with a strong arm around his shoulders and his voice speaking low and calm in his ear.

It seemed then to Heath that the night had been one of chasing fragments of himself, pieces broken and re-broken, spinning from his grasp whenever he let his guard down. Shame and remorse rose up in his throat and he lowered his head to his hands, suddenly wishing these people he loved had never been burdened with him and his mess. He swallowed and blinked back the sudden tears that blurred the ground before him.

The light of the rising sun at his back traced lines of liquid gold in the puddles of water that had spilled from the horse trough, running in rivulets along the graveled path. Mud and broken rocks became suddenly beautiful, and he thought of Cho and his pot. He realized it was the love and compassion Cho brought to the mending that created something far greater than the sum of its fragments. _Compassion_. It occurred to Heath that thinking of _himself_ with compassion was not something that came easily to him at all. But Heath was a practical man, and he appreciated good workmanship. _Cho would tell me that if I can't learn to do that, then all I'm doing is cobbling together something that just looks whole._

 _"Heath, listen, Laotzu says compassion is like water. Water nourishes all things, without conflict, without fighting. It flows through the places that people reject. It is gentle and soft, but it can overcome any obstacle. Where there is no conflict, there is no fault. No fight, no blame. He says, surrender yourself humbly; then you can be trusted to care for all things._ _Love the world as your own self; then you can truly care for all things."_

 _That feels like a tall order right about now, Cho. But I'll keep trying._

* * *

Before he left for Sacramento, John Smith had contacted Frank Sawyer to ask his help, but the marshal was already on his way up from Jubilee. He'd been following the news, and he was profoundly worried about his young friend and former deputy. Like Jarrod, he had heard a few rumors and stories about a scam involving the sheriff in Wellington, and so he had some idea of what the Barkley brothers had stumbled into back in June. His concern increased with the shooting at Leviathan, but he knew John Smith, and felt sure it would soon all come right. The crescendo of lynch-mob fervor finally sent him riding north, heading at top speed to meet Smith in Carson City once he learned of the full-scale manhunt that was underway in the hills west of the town.

Frank also knew Luther Buckner quite well, having mentored him out of many jams when the Kentucky youngster first arrived in the west as a newly minted lawyer. Luther often credited Frank with saving his career from a quick and flaming end as he learned the ropes (and occasionally almost hanged himself, figuratively) as a California district attorney. With this Leviathan case, the marshal was acutely aware of the political pressure Luther faced at this juncture, as well as the power he held over Heath's fate. _If_ Frank succeeded with John in retrieving their fugitive friend safely from the mountains, his next order of business was to do whatever he could to make sure Luther didn't then crush the boy in the courtroom.

When they set out on their search, Frank had expected Heath wouldn't be easy to track or corner, especially up in the hills. He knew, though, that Heath was fleeing on foot, and was pretty tapped out besides. John agreed it shouldn't take too long to catch him.

They were wrong. They had gained on him, steadily, true, but they were tired out and very happy to have the help of Nick and Jarrod's fresh young eyes when the brothers caught up with them to join the search. Frank purely couldn't believe it when they finally realized where Heath was heading. They had ridden up to the Buckner house hoping desperately they'd find Heath alive, each harboring some fear that Heath might, in his extremity, be coming to attack the man who was prosecuting him. They were profoundly relieved to discover Heath more or less intact and still, as Mike would put it, acting as "damned civilized" as usual.

* * *

Luther was an early riser, earlier even than Bill and Luke. He was surprised - and felt a slight thrill of fear - when he came downstairs and saw Heath Barkley standing at the pasture fence, with no marshal in sight. The weeks of dire warnings about Barkley's murderous intentions and violent nature had left their impression on him, despite what he had seen himself and heard from Smith and Sawyer. It crossed his mind to load up his shotgun, just in case. He was able to dismiss that idea, and - relying heavily on his faith in Frank Sawyer - he brought out an extra cup of coffee instead.

He thought it was probably prudent not to sneak up on the man, though, so he spoke from the porch. "Mornin'."

Heath looked at him, no hint of danger in his expression, and Luther relaxed slightly. "Mornin'."

"Got a cup a coffee here if you'd like." He walked down to the pasture fence and held it out to him.

Heath hesitated, surprised, looking back and forth between the steaming cup and Buckner's face for a moment before he reached out to accept it. "Thanks very much," he murmured. Then he turned his eyes back to the vanishing moon. "This is not where I expected to be this morning." He shook his head. "To be honest, I wasn't expecting to be still breathin' this morning, much less having a cup of coffee with the Attorney General."

He turned to face Buckner. "I want to apologize again for breaking into your home. Truly."

"The shotgun was a nice touch," Luther commented, "but an incredibly foolish idea. As was coming here in the first place."

Heath's eyes flickered down for a moment, frowning slightly, and he shoved aside the small sprig of hope that had come curling up with the sunrise. "Yeah," he said, his eyes back on the mountains, the moon now out of sight. "Foolish." He decided to appreciate the very good coffee he held in his hand.

Luther looked beyond him to the bunk house. "Ah, good, here comes Marshal Smith."

Heath sensed Buckner relax as Smith approached. He was certain that was not a good sign, but then admonished himself to stop trying to predict this man. What would come would come. Heath couldn't see anything else that he could do to change Buckner's course. He turned to face Smith.

"Mornin', John."

Smith nodded to Heath, his concerned gray eyes intent on his face. His silent scrutiny, so different in feeling from when they first met, was nonetheless still discomfiting. Heath cleared his throat, breaking eye contact to look at the ground and shove a hand in his pocket. "Um - so - when do you have to take me back, John?"

Smith looked at Buckner. "What have you two been discussing out here?"

"Nothing, really," Luther said, suddenly feeling a little defensive.

"Have you made your decision, Luther?"

"No. No, I haven't."

Heath looked up, surprised.

Smith looked pleased. "Good, so it's still under discussion. Luther, why don't you go wake up Frank? I'm sure he'd like to know where his -" He glanced at Heath. "Hmm - maybe just get 'im some coffee. I'm sure he wants to chat with you."

As Luther turned to go back to the house, Smith spoke again. "Luther. One more thing?"

Luther stopped to listen.

"Luther, I respect you, and the office you hold. It's a fine thing when those two things occur together." Smith spoke seriously. "Let me just leave you with a thought before you go."

"What thought?"

 _"I think that we should be men first, and subjects afterward,"_ Smith quoted.

Heath's head came up, intently watching both men, his eyes questioning.

"Thoreau," Luther said.

"Yes. A fine work Mr. Barkley here introduced me to over the summer during our travels."

Luther paused and looked thoughtfully at them both for a long moment. Then he turned, still pensive, and walked up to the house.

Smith smiled, nodded, then changed topics. "Heath, you know we found those three thugs that you strung up in Ash Canyon."

"Yes."

"They had a boss. I'm guessing that won't come as a surprise to you."

"No."

"You probably won't be surprised either to know their boss - who, by the way, they enthusiastically denounced regarding multiple capital felony crimes - was one of the jurors on the panel who advocated for your day's release. The same juror who had been energetically arguing against your release previously."

"That figures...so who? Why?"

Smith kept his eyes closely on Heath now. "We identified, interrogated, and arrested that juror, and sent him to the state prison. He was a local entrepreneur and semi-retired water management engineer by the name of Matthew Brown."

Heath went very still, his shoulders tense. "Matthew -"

"Yes. It was Bentell."

Heath swayed slightly under the competing rush of emotions that threatened to choke him. The brief satisfaction that came with "we sent him to the state prison" was quickly eclipsed by a crushing belief that he, Heath, was cursed. He reached for the fence rail to steady himself as the coffee cup slipped unnoticed from his numb fingers. He heard the growling of dogs. Letting go of the fence, he covered his ears, thinking, _I'm losing my mind._ He heard Smith calling to him, gripping his arms, but all he could think was _This won't end. It won't ever end, you should all just stay away from me._

When Bentell had reappeared so abruptly in Stockton, it had been jarring, briefly frightening, nauseating certainly. Then, he had been a free man, and it had only taken a moment for him to find and keep his balance in that confrontation, there in his (new) home with his (new) family. But here, now - his every coping and containment strategy was being overwhelmed. He did not at all feel like a free man. It seemed in this moment of revelation that all of the cruelty and suffering he had witnessed and experienced in his young life had all arisen from _him_ , it was all _his_ , and it would follow and surround him all the rest of his days.

He raked his hands into his hair, his eyes squeezed shut. He had to pull himself out of this crazy place. "John -" A desperate whisper.

"Heath, I'm right here."

"God, John, I feel like - I feel like it's never gonna stop. Like it's my fault, it just won't ever stop, you should just get away from me, all of you -" He wanted to push John away and hold onto him at the same time.

John ignored the pushing away and went with the holding on. "Heath, it's over. Bentell is over and done. The other evil guy before Bentell, whoever he was, is LONG since over and done. Risley is over and done. Donovan I personally put two bullets in. Remember what Rivka said. Sometimes the bad guys come back, but that's not your fault. It's theirs."

"She said it much better," Heath mumbled into John's chest. He was shivering and breathing like he had just run a mile uphill.

"I'm sure she did." John said, smiling. "By the way, did I tell you how much I admired that booby trap you set up there in Ash Canyon? I was telling Frank about it. That was sweet. You're going to have to show us both."


	119. Chapter 119

_"I think that we should be men first, and subjects afterward. It is not desirable to cultivate a respect for the law, so much as for the right. The only obligation which I have a right to assume, is to do at any time what I think right..._

 _"The lawyer's truth is not Truth, but consistency or a consistent expediency. Truth is always in harmony with herself, and is not concerned chiefly to reveal the justice that may consist with wrong-doing."_

 _Henry David Thoreau_

 _"On Civil Disobedience"_

 _Carson City, September, 1874_

Frank Sawyer walked out onto the back porch, stretching and working out the kinks in his back. _That's my punishment for falling asleep in a chair. That, and for sure whatever smart-aleck comment I'm gonna get from Heath for letting him sneak past me._ Frank smiled to himself. He wasn't concerned about Heath sneaking out. He was just relieved they had gotten him safely down out of the hills in one piece.

He could see Heath and John Smith standing by the pasture fence talking seriously together. Even at this distance, he thought the younger man looked simultaneously exhausted, and as frayed and tense as an over-wound winch. Frank had to think that wasn't a good combination, but how could it be otherwise? John put a hand on Heath's shoulder as he spoke, and Heath looked up at the taller man, seeming to relax slightly. The two turned and walked together along the pasture fence, looking at the horses.

Frank was glad to see it. Heath had come to him as a teenager, back in '66. He was 17 years old then, skinny and still growing. Heath had put a little distance between himself and the war by that point, but not so much that a man like Frank couldn't see the boy listening for those hell hound memories that were always looking for a chance to sneak up on him.

The night they met, Frank had just made a mistake, a bad mistake, a potentially fatal mistake. He had followed a thief out of the dance hall and confronted him in a side alley, intending to arrest him with the stolen cash box in his possession. He assumed the thief was working alone. He was wrong, and he was about to be shot down by the thief's accomplices who had materialized behind him, guns drawn. Heath had drifted into Jubilee for a few days between jobs, with plans to head up to Strawberry to visit his mother. He was leaving the saloon with a pocketful of poker winnings when he stumbled upon the scene in the alley. Heath, unarmed, acted on instinct and evened the odds with a pry bar he found to hand leaning against the building. Frank arrested 3 thieves that night, and then he bought Heath a beer and a late dinner.

Most kids his age, in Frank's experience, were looking for ways to make some quick money, and Heath certainly had done his share of those kind of jobs. He had helped his mother since he was old enough to make a few pennies, and would continue to do so up until the day she died. But it was a different type of hunger Frank sensed in him so strongly that night. Heath needed work that _meant_ something beyond just feeding himself and making a few dollars. He wanted a home, wanted to belong somewhere, but if he couldn't have that, at the very least, he wanted to be of service.

Heath had many qualities that were well-suited to being a lawman. He was highly moral, observant, thoughtful, and an excellent judge of character. He was calm and level-headed in a crisis. He had an easy manner with people, but seemed fearless in confrontation. He was the best shot with a rifle Frank had ever seen, and he rode like he was born on horseback. He seemed driven to help others. Frank had a strong feeling that drive was part of what helped the boy keep the hell hounds at bay.

When Frank offered to train him as his deputy, Heath's eyes lit up. As the conversation turned to his background, though, Heath told Frank about his separation from the army the year before, his expression resigned, certain the offer would be withdrawn because of his dishonorable discharge. Frank knew that Heath had never stopped feeling grateful to him over the years for giving him a chance. Frank also knew it had been, for him, an easy decision. He was an excellent judge of character himself, and he had never once had reason to doubt his choice.

He had to admit he was shocked when he first laid eyes on Heath last night. As they chased after him through the foothills, John and Jarrod and Nick had filled him in on most of what had occurred over the summer. He wasn't expecting his friend to be in terrific shape when they finally caught up to him. But the Heath he saw kneeling before Luther's shotgun last night was a man who had pushed as far as he could, and was waiting for the executioner's ax.

That moment had kindled a murderous rage in Sawyer that he was keeping under tight control, a thought process he had not shared with John, or the Barkleys, and certainly not with Luther. Now that they had Heath somewhere they could keep him safe, Frank could watch and wait to see how things played out. He would give the court the chance to do its duty, and fortunately it seemed convictions were likely. But if any of those men walked free, Frank had promised himself, he would hunt them down himself. And if Heath _didn't_ walk free, well, Sawyer intended to make sure he did, one way or another. His biggest obstacle on that count would likely be Heath himself. That promise to himself was the one thing that was helping him cope with the waiting and the lynch mob bigotry that still pervaded the town.

Now, he needed to focus on Buckner.

Frank nodded his thanks as Buckner followed him onto the porch and handed him a steaming cup of black coffee. "So, Luther, what words of wisdom did Marshal Smith have for you?"

"Thoreau."

"Excuse me?"

"I believe he was encouraging me to give greater weight to Heath Barkley's intentions, rather than his actions, as I decide what the indictment should be."

"What's your objection to that?"

"My objection, Frank, is this: Heath Barkley rode to Leviathan armed and fully prepared to use lethal force. He had time to hide his horse, approach by stealth, and choose a firing position. He then methodically killed five men, using five bullets. I'm having difficulty not seeing that as premeditated, first degree murder. Did he want to ride out and kill them? Probably not. But he did."

"I see your point, Luther, but in your scenario, those five men are just passive targets, not doing anything. But they _were_ doing something, and that makes all the difference. Just because he was skilled and efficient in the killing doesn't mean it wasn't justified. Every single man that Heath shot and killed in that campsite had a gun in his hands aimed at one of the Barkleys. _Every. Single. One_. I'm not going to quote Thoreau. I'm going to quote the Nevada legal code. _Justifiable homicide exists in the lawful defense of the slayer, or his or her husband, wife, parent, child, brother or sister, or of any other person in his or her presence or company, when there is reasonable ground to apprehend a design on the part of the person slain to commit a felony or to do some great personal injury to the slayer or to any such person, and there is **imminent danger** of such design being accomplished. _ What is more imminent danger than a man pointing a rifle at your brother's head, Luther? And the one man there who was unarmed? The one you'd think Heath would _want_ to kill more than any of the others? He is alive. Heath did not kill him, because he was unarmed and did not present an imminent threat to him or his brothers. Risley is the exception that proves the rule."

"The _Barkleys_ say there were rifles pointing at them."

"Risley's intent to have Nick and Jarrod killed has been corroborated by Peterson and several other witnesses from Wellington."

Luther sat silent, thinking.

Sawyer continued, "Luther, you _know_ it feels wrong to call this murder. You could do it, you know - you could spin it that way and crush that boy. Put him away for life or get him hung. But I want you to try to imagine something first. Instead of a maligned illegitimate drifter, imagine the accused is a well-loved member of the community, our pastor, say, or the family doctor that everyone's known and loved for decades, who went out on a desperate ride to save his brothers. Imagine the whole community, all those voters, waiting for you to vindicate him and release him back to his friends and family. If you can honestly imagine entering an indictment of first degree murder in that scenario, well, _then_ maybe I'll believe you're not being influenced by public opinion. If you can't, then I suggest you take a look at yourself."


	120. chapter 120

_"Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius...to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way._

 _"I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor...Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour."_

 _Henry_ _David Thoreau_

 _"Walden"_

 _Carson_ _City, morning, September, 1874_

"Buckner's got some nice breeding stock here," Heath commented as they walked along the pasture fence.

"That's his Kentucky roots, I imagine," Smith said. The horses looked lovely to him, but he didn't have Heath's professional eye. Any established Kentucky family worth it's salt, though, would have to know its horses.

Heath pointed out a few details, tried to guess which of the yearlings came from which brood mare. John listened, letting Heath keep his attention on the animals, knowing it was helping him settle down.

"Why don't you come in the bunk house, Heath. I've got some breakfast ready. Sit down for a bit."

Heath paused, preoccupied, before he took his eyes from the horses. He nodded. "Alright. Thanks."

Sitting at the table in the bunk house, Heath could see Luther and Frank in an animated discussion on the back porch. He sighed. "I don't see Buckner being convinced, John. I can tell from here Frank's pushing hard."

"We're not going to stop trying."

"Might be he's digging his heels in even more." Heath tried to eat some of the bacon and biscuits John had placed before him. "When's he going to court today?"

"I heard they postponed to afternoon because they were waiting for the replacement juror to arrive."

"The family won't be back from Tahoe probably until nightfall," Heath said, thinking out loud. "Wish I could see them before this all goes down. If they hand down the murder indictment, John, what happens then? I go back into prison?"

"That's what the order would be," Smith said darkly.

Heath looked up sharply. "Oh, no, don't you even _consider_ it," Heath said, putting down his fork. "Not you, not Frank, not my brothers."

"Heath -"

" _No_. None of you are going to become outlaws to protect me. I won't let it happen. Do you understand me? Nick and Jarrod took a crazy risk getting me out of prison in Mexico. I won't have them in that position again. Nor you, or Frank."

"I understand you, Heath. But we all make our own choices, don't we."

Their eyes met across the table, Smith steady and determined, Heath painfully aware of where his misadventures might lead them all. "Please, John -" he began.

"Look, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Smith interrupted. "I'm not saying that we're all going to run off on a suicide mission if things don't go as we want them to. But you need to accept that in this family, we fight and sacrifice _for each other._ You don't get to be the exception. Do _you_ understand _me_?"

" _We_ , John?" Heath smiled sidelong at the marshal. "Now who's getting ahead of himself? I'm not sure you've even officially started courting my mother yet. You'd better get a move on so's you two can at least have a few dinners together before you propose."

John started to reply, then realized he was completely at a loss for words. He closed his mouth, shaking his head with a smile.

Heath was remembering himself how Victoria had affected him the first time they met, in the grand foyer of the house, him sneaking out with his hatful of stolen apples and his vanishing hope of finding a family. She had struck him like a bolt of lightning, changing his view of the world around him, of his entire future, in a sudden flash of illumination. Heath could well imagine what her effect had been on John Smith, and what previously unimagined future had suddenly come into his view. "I know," Heath laughed, his eyes twinkling at John's speechlessness. "I get it, believe me." He decided to change the subject and relieve John of some of his embarrassment. "What's happening with you in Sacramento?"

"I've been asked to serve as U.S. Marshal for the 9th Judicial District."

" _The_ U.S. Marshal? For the whole district?"

"Yep."

Heath whistled. "That would make you the head _f_ _ederale_ for everything west of the Rockies."

"Pretty much."

"When would that start? You'd work out of Sacramento?"

"Yep, Sacramento. It's an appointed office. I'd have to be approved by the U.S. Senate. But I can serve as acting Marshal in the interim. Put me a lot closer to my daughter and her family."

"And to Stockton."

Smith smiled. "Yes, and Stockton. But not just yet. There are a few details and conditions to be worked out. And I'm not leaving Carson City until -"

"Don't make any promises on that account, John. There's too many unknowns. I know you have my back."

Looking back out the window, Heath saw Sawyer mounting up and riding out toward the road. Buckner was walking toward the bunk house, looking at the ground, his hands in his pockets. "Where's Frank going?"

"Said earlier he had to reply to a few telegrams from Jubilee, and he probably wants to give Luther some time to think." He opened the door. "Luther, c'mon in and sit a spell."

"Just wanted a few words before I go in to get my papers ready for court," he said gravely.

"Sure," Smith said, offering him a chair.

"No thanks," Luther said. "I'll stand."

Heath felt an knot of despair twisting inside him. With a conscious effort he pushed it away. He was certain Luther was not here with good news, or a change of heart. As far as he could see, Luther had been moved only to a more uncomfortable position, that is, he intended to charge Heath with murder, still felt obligated to do so, the only difference being that now he felt some discomfort and regret about it. His regret, however, would be of no use to Heath.

Their eyes met. "You still feel that you have to charge me with murder," Heath said for him.

Buckner frowned. "Yes. You still intend to plead no contest?"

"Yes."

Luther sighed, rubbing his tense forehead. "You understand a _nolo_ plea is, for all practical purposes, a plea of guilty?"

"Yes."

"Your absolute best outcome, then, would be if Jarrod can negotiate during sentencing down to the penalty for voluntary manslaughter. That's 5 years _minimum,_ and I've never seen a first degree murder charge reduced to the minimum for manslaughter. So more realistically, _at_ _best_ you're looking at 25, parole in 10."

"Unless the jury feels the evidence doesn't support the charge. Can't the grand jury decide it was justifiable homicide and dismiss?" Smith asked.

"Unlikely." Luther looked at Heath, frustrated. "This is not brave, Barkley, it is _foolish_. Why won't you just plead not guilty? Let Jarrod argue for you?"

"Because you know as well as Jarrod does what happened. You want it both ways, Luther, but _you're_ going to have to choose."

Smith focused on Heath, as an understanding began to form in his mind. Before he could speak, Buckner shook his head, scowling. "I've got work to do," he said gruffly. He abruptly turned on his heel and stalked out. As he brushed past, Smith could've sworn for a moment Buckner had tears in his eyes.


	121. Chapter 121

_"...People, as well as an individual, must do justice, cost what it may. If I have unjustly wrested a plank from a drowning man, I must restore it to him though I drown myself."_

 _Henry_ _David Thoreau_

 _"On Civil Disobedience"_

 _Carson City, mid-day, September, 1874_

Heath splashed water on his face, then decided to stick his whole head under the hand pump at the sink. It was near noon, a sunny and unseasonably hot day. Voice muffled under a cloth as he dried his face, he said, "You know, John, when I came here last night, I broke in here first and washed up and shaved before I went to the house. I had this idea that it would help if I at least didn't _look_ like a crazed murderer."

"I know. We tracked you up the irrigation ditch. Could tell you'd been here. Kinda glad to see it, 'cause I thought, if you were fixing to kill Luther Buckner, you wouldn't have stopped to clean up first. Still, it seemed like a crazy thing to take time to do when you're running from a manhunt."

"It _was_ crazy. It was desperate. I wasn't kidding when I said you and Frank scared the hell outta me last night. I didn't know who you were, but I figured you had a rope with my name on it, and I knew you'd catch up to me before the night was over. Figured that would be the end of it unless I could get Buckner to change his mind. Turns out that plan didn't work, cleaned up or no. I didn't get him to change his mind. If that hadn't been you on my tail, I wouldn't have seen the sun come up this morning. If I haven't said it already, John, _damn_ , was I glad to see you all last night."

"That feeling is mutual."

Heath leaned by the window, looking out toward the stable. He frowned.

"What is it?"

"Have you seen Bill or Luke recently?"

"No...I don't think I've seen them all day, actually."

"I saw them early this morning - they came out about the same time as Buckner, headed over to the stable. I haven't seen them since, and these horses haven't gotten any feed or hay this morning. No way they keep these brood horses just grazing on this desert scrub."

The two men glanced at each other, both starting to worry and each wondering if he was overreacting.

Smith stood. "Hmm. Maybe I should take a walk over to the stable and check."

Heath nodded toward the house. "Looks like Luther is starting to wonder too." Buckner had appeared on the back porch, looking puzzled. It was lunchtime. Heath figured Luke ran the kitchen, and Luther, buried in paperwork, probably was just now noticing that he was alone in the house.

Smith buckled on his gun belt, from which also hung a pair of handcuffs. He pulled on the weathered leather vest that bore his marshal's star. He was about to step out the door when Heath jumped to stop him, pulling him to the wall where they wouldn't be seen through the window. At the same moment, shouts, and the the sound of many horses arriving at a gallop, came clearly to the men hidden in the bunkhouse. The horsemen encircled the small stone farmhouse, each one masked with a scarf tied over their mouth and nose. The lead riders gathered to corner Buckner standing alone and defenseless on the porch.

"Word got out somehow I'm here," Heath muttered, his jaw tight. He glanced again at the stable. "I hope Bill and Luke are alright." He and Smith looked cautiously out the window toward the house.

Heath had figured the manhunt, as widespread and stoked to burn as it was, wouldn't just sputter and grow cold overnight. He'd thought maybe he would have a little more time before it caught up with him again (or better still, he'd be cleared and could head out of Nevada with his family as fast as they could ride. No such luck there.) Taking refuge within Buckner's home had never even remotely entered into his plans, such as they were, and now he was looking at the direct consequence of his presence here. Heath didn't recognize any of the men. They were all mounted and armed - some had the appearance of local farmers, but several, including the leaders, had a hard, mercenary look. Bounty hunters. There was still reward money out there for fuel, even with Bentell out of the picture. Heath noticed his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, tried to calm down and pay attention. Initially, he and John could only pick up fragments of what was being said up at the house, but they got the gist of it.

"Buckner! Send out that animal! You've been sheltering a killer. Your duty is to protect the people, not give that animal a place to hide. Send him out or we'll hang you right next to him!"

Even at this distance, Smith could see Buckner was terrified and near frozen. Figuring it was just moments until he pointed the mob their way, Smith grabbed his rifle and filled his pockets with extra shells.

Before Buckner could respond, the leader spun his horse and moved a few paces away from the house. Turning in a circle, he bellowed his message up to the windows and out to the whole farmstead. "Barkley! You better be listening! We figure Buckner's gonna let you off. Why else would he be hiding you here? But we ain't gonna let that happen. We're gonna hang him before we let that happen, you hear me? Show yourself! Give yourself up and we'll let him live. I'm counting. I'm giving you 3 minutes. Then we're gonna kill Buckner, and we'll turn this place upside down and kill you too."

Heath was already moving to the door. Smith stepped in his path. "Heath. No. I'm not letting you go out there."

"There's no choice."

" _I'll_ go."

"And do what? That bunch just rode up and threatened to lynch the state's Attorney General. Why do you think they're going to have respect for your badge?"

"I'll tell them we've moved you to another location."

 _"Two minutes!_ "

"You know that won't work. If they don't get me, right now, they'll kill him."

Smith did not budge. "I will handcuff you to that stove if I have to."

"John -" Heath looked desperately toward the farmhouse, then back up at the tall man blocking his way, his eyes pleading. "John. You could lock me down. We both know that. You've got the right - the law says you're the boss of me right now and what you say goes. Besides, at this point I doubt I've got it in me to keep you from getting those irons back on me if that's what you decide to do." His voice was soft, strained. "John, I can't leave him out there. Even knowing he's going to walk away from this and tell the court to put me away for life, I can't leave him out there. _You_ can't stop those men from hanging him, but I _can_. Please don't make me fight my way out of here. I know you don't want to hurt me."

Smith's grey gaze did not waver, but Heath could see pain in his eyes as he struggled with what Heath was saying to him. "Two times you've trusted me, Heath, and two times I put you right in the path of an avalanche. Both times I barely got you back alive. I can't do that again."

"I've trusted you plenty more times than just two, Marshal, and I've never once regretted it. Would it help if I broke your leg or cracked you in the head with something?"

John relented, but he still hadn't stepped aside. "OK. But I'm going with you."

 _"One minute!"_

"How does that make sense?"

Smith took the handcuffs from his gun belt. "I'm thinking they won't shoot me if they think I won't interfere. I can make sure Buckner gets clear. If they take you somewhere, it'll help us track and catch them if I see them up close and see which way they go. And if they think they're gonna kill you on the spot - well, then I'll be interfering. Now, turn around and put your hands behind your back."


	122. chapter 122

_Carson City, mid-day, September, 1874_

Luther leaned back from his desk, his head pounding, his hand cramped from hours of writing. His stomach grumbled. Checking his pocket watch, he saw it was well past time for lunch. Strange that he heard no sounds of activity and smelled no cooking from the kitchen.

He had prepared his papers to request the indictment of Heath Barkley on 5 counts of murder. His charges had evolved into an argument for second degree murder, mitigated by the fact that the crime was "committed while the defendant was under the influence of extreme mental or emotional disturbance." It seemed to Buckner that this was the most he could safely do to reduce the severity of the indictment.

It was significant, in his mind. Such a mitigating factor would essentially remove the possibility of a penalty of death. Because of the number of victims, however, at sentencing, Buckner would strongly recommend a life sentence, with the possibility of parole in 10 years. Jarrod Barkley might be able to negotiate the term down some, but the 10 year minimum to parole was a firm limit.

He should have felt some satisfaction, looking at his stack of neatly prepared documents. Should have felt ready, focused. But the voice of Frank Sawyer kept nagging at him.

Out of deference to Frank, Luther tried to imagine other scenarios. He imagined that it was Bill, running out with his loaded gun because he had heard Luke was in danger, and then shooting a man because he was pointing a gun at Luke. Would he be charged with murder? Luther realized he could hardly imagine even considering it. Why did he feel differently about Heath Barkley?

His stomach rumbled again, and he got up to go see what was going on in the kitchen. He realized he hadn't seen either Bill or Luke since first light. Hadn't Bill apologized in advance for the noise he'd likely be making replacing roof shingles today? Where was he?

And why was the kitchen empty and dark, with no cookfires burning, and the morning's coffee pot still sitting, cold and unwashed?

"Luke...?" Luther checked his pocket watch, to confirm the strangeness of Luke's absence from the kitchen. High noon.

Looking out the window, Luther saw no one - not Bill, nor Barkley, nor Marshal Smith. He walked out onto the back porch, casting his eye around the pastures and outbuildings. No one. The terrifying certainty came to him that Heath Barkley had killed his loyal staff, and possibly Marshal Smith as well. Killed them and fled. No - he would kill Luther as well, of course he would. Fear crawled up his spine as he spun around, certain Barkley was sneaking up behind him. Or - he was a sniper. He didn't need to sneak up. He could be anywhere out there -

Just as he was about to flee back inside, Luther heard the sound of many approaching riders, a sound that filled him with relief. _Perhaps that's Sawyer coming back with help. Maybe he heard something, learned we were in danger._

He remained on the porch, and watched the horsemen surround his house. Masked horsemen..? His sense of relief began to flicker, then fade, and then it vanished completely when those masked faces turned their violence upon him.

"You are sheltering a killer! You're planning to let him walk. Why else would you be hiding him here?"

"No, that's not true...I'm not planning on letting him off. I have a murder indictment. I didn't want him here -"

"Your duty is to protect the people, not give that animal a place to hide. Send him out or we'll hang you right next to him!"

"I don't know where he is! I don't know where anybody is, even my two men -"

"Your house boy and the stable hand are fine, Buckner, we just tied 'em up in the barn there."

In his panic, Luther was still so convinced that Barkley had killed Bill and Luke, that for a moment he didn't understand what the masked bounty hunter meant. Then, belatedly, he realized that it was these men who had disabled and imprisoned his two helpers in the barn. Still processing the fact that Barkley _hadn't_ killed Bill and Luke, Luther now listened with horror as the bounty hunter shouted his demands.

 _"Three minutes!"_

Buckner had three minutes to live. Three minutes, because there was no way in hell Barkley wouldn't run.

Of course he would run. Anyone would. What fugitive would trade his life for a man who was planning to indict him for murder?

Luther found himself wishing he had lied to Heath and told him he wasn't going to charge him with anything - but he doubted that would make any difference.

" _Two_ _minutes!"_

Should he tell them to look in the bunk house? Maybe Barkley was still there, if he hadn't already fled the farm. And where was Smith?

 _"One minute!"_

Buckner swayed on his feet and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling he would faint. He heard a door open, and a voice came clearly across the pasture.

"Let him go. You want me, I'm here. Let him go. There's no need to hurt anyone else."


	123. Chapter 123

_Carson City, mid-day, September, 1874_

Luther opened his eyes and looked with disbelief as Heath Barkley stepped out of the bunk house. He watched him stand quietly as Smith shackled his wrists behind his back. The lead bounty hunter visually confirmed his quarry, then turned back to Buckner with a cynical laugh. "You must have a guardian angel in your pocket, Buckner. It's your lucky day." He pointed to three of his men to follow him, and, wheeling their horses, they galloped toward the bunkhouse and surrounded the two men.

The leader narrowed his eyes at Smith. "What's your stand here, Marshal?"

Smith returned the stare calmly. "This is my prisoner. I don't much cotton to the idea of turning him over, but I know when I'm outgunned. My stand right now is to make sure the Attorney General remains unharmed. Can we agree on that?"

"I think so. There's no bounty on the AG. Not yet, anyway. Come along."

They walked up to the house. Heath felt some relief they seemed to be buying Smith's story. They didn't disarm the marshal, and they handed the AG over to him, directing them both to remain on the porch. Smith was watching everything closely, trying to remain impassive. Luther, however, was staring at Heath, still with a look of stunned incredulity on his face.

"Why didn't he run?" Luther whispered. "Did you stop him?"

Smith's jaw tightened in anger. "No," he said tightly, meeting Buckner's questioning look. "On the contrary. I tried to stop him from giving himself up." Buckner's eyes widened. Smith continued, keeping a steely grip on his emotions. "Why didn't he run? He didn't run because he saw he was the only one who could save your life."

"But -"

"We'll be moving along and out of your hair in a few minutes, Marshal," the leader interrupted. He turned his attention to Heath, dismounting and stepping up close to him. He spoke softly. "I was one of those that brought you up to Ash Canyon, mutt. As you can see, there's a bunch of us didn't get caught." Without warning, he slammed his fist into Heath's ribs, one, two, three times, then stepped back as Heath dropped to the ground coughing and gasping for air. " _Damn_ you caused us a lot of grief. But the good news is, the pay for your hide is still up for grabs. So here we are again."

"I'm curious," Heath rasped, getting himself back up on his knees with a groan, "Dead or alive? Or just dead?"

"Just dead."

Heath nodded, then was overcome again with a fit of coughing that briefly made him think maybe these outlaws wouldn't have to hang him after all. He could just die right here, doubled over in the Attorney General's back yard. He felt like the man had just knocked something loose in his chest, or maybe he just broke a bunch of ribs again. Gradually he got back to breathing, sort of, and he slowly, carefully, straightened up. He tilted his face up to the blazing noon sun, feeling the sweat running down his back and the heat of the metal on his wrists.

"I thought it was a stupid idea to go dragging your ragged carcass all the way up to that shack just to kill you. I wanted to just hang ya right there where we caught ya, right in that rail yard, and then go collect our pay. I was right, and I'm running this gang now. So today, I'm doing it my way. I'm gonna string you up on this big old cottonwood right here. And then Attorney General Mr. Buckner will think on this every time he looks out his back window, and he'll remember you hangin' there, and maybe our citizens won't need to _remind_ him next time about the _proper_ way to handle a mongrel Jew-loving bastard like you." He snapped his fingers, and one of the men brought him a rope, already fashioned into a noose. Heath couldn't help but follow it with his eyes as the bounty hunter tossed it smoothly over the heavy branch overhead. He swallowed in a dry throat as he watched the empty noose swing back and forth, back and forth.

 _The family's on their way down from Tahoe by now._ The thought slammed into him like a physical blow, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, fighting back a desire to cry out, knowing that what he wished was for them to hear him.

"John -" he called out, hoarse. "The family -" Heath looked up at Smith standing still as a statue on the porch, watching him, missing nothing. Smith nodded, his eyes bright, but his expression now hardening into one of focused intent.

Heath turned his eyes then to Luther, who was gazing at him in horror. He tried to give him a look and a nod he hoped would be encouraging, though his heart was now hammering in his chest. _I hope to God it's not this outlaw's lesson you learn from this, Luther,_ Heath thought fervently. _If I do end up hanged from your cottonwood tree, I hope what you'll remember is that it's what I chose, and why I chose it._


	124. Chapter 124

_Franktown Creek Trail, Sierra Nevada, 10:00 AM, September, 1874_

None of the women were able to sleep much the night before in Joe Morgan's cabin overlooking Tahoe. He made them welcome, and was ferociously eager to stand watch and assist in their difficulties in any way he could. He was an old man, but a tough one; independent, and happy to take on anyone who might threaten Tom and Victoria's family.

Rivka, Audra and Victoria knew they needed to rest in order to manage whatever might come the next day. They slept a few hours, but the full moon was bright enough to travel by, and by 4 AM the three women and Joe were mounted and riding southeast. None of them had the patience to wait for Nick and Jarrod to arrive. They'd had no news since the brothers had ridden off to join the hunt. They were, each of them, in a torment of worry for Heath.

Rivka had discussed earlier with the men what routes they would take back to Carson City, and she planned to meet them on the trail. The four riders skirted Marlette Lake in moonlight, not knowing they were following Heath's path of the previous day. By sunup, while Heath was watching the moon set and wondering if they were awake, they were cresting the Sierras and beginning their trek down Franktown Creek trail, picking up their pace through the pine woods as the sky lightened.

By mid-morning they heard Nick's holler from the Ash Canyon trail below them. Jarrod's smile and wave communicated their relief across the distance as the women traversed the ridge down into the canyon for an eager and tearful reunion. They took a short break for water and a bite of food, and then all six continued their descent toward Carson City as the sun climbed toward high noon.

They reached the ford where they had crossed last night in pursuit of Heath. Jarrod was describing the events of the night, and Heath's condition when they arrived. Rivka looked upriver, picturing Heath alone in the dark, and her heart ached for him.

Nick rode slightly ahead as they reached the riverbank, having seen something that caught his attention. He held up his hand to tell the group to wait, as he circled slowly, scowling at the ground.

"Nick, what is it?" Jarrod remembered this stretch of river was virtually untrammeled last night, something that helped them pick up Heath's trail in the dark to Buckner's farm.

"Riders. Eight, maybe more. Moving fast in a tight group. Following our trail from last night."

Victoria understood their worry immediately. She pulled her rifle from its scabbard and made sure it was loaded, then rested it across the pommel of her saddle. She nodded to Rivka, Audra, and Joe to do the same.

The six circled their horses. Victoria spoke. "Nick, Jarrod, you've been to the house. You know the layout. We have to assume these riders picked up your trail and are after Heath. What's the plan?"

 _Carson City, noon, September, 1874_

On the road back from Carson City, Frank Sawyer had just reached the same conclusion, though he came by his information from Mike Peterson. Word had flown around town that the remnants of the rough gang of bounty hunters that had first captured Heath Barkley had come out of hiding, and launched an attack on none other than the Attorney General, in whose home Barkley was now hiding. There was wild speculation as to whether the AG was a hostage, or whether he was aiding and abetting the fugitive.

Roping in Ramos and Roberts for backup, Sawyer was a man on fire, riding at top speed back to Buckner's house, when he met up with the Barkleys.

"Folks, we got trouble - though you look like you already know that." He looked over the group. Even that lovely teenage sister of Heath's looked more than ready for war. "Just so you know how _much_ trouble, the word is a pack of outlaws that fancy themselves bounty hunters rode for Buckner's place just a little while ago. Lead guy goes by the name Mule. Rough bunch, killers, the same bad guys that kidnapped Heath up to Ash Canyon."

"Oh boy," Jarrod said.

Roberts smiled like a mountain lion on the hunt. "I've been wantin' to see those guys again."

* * *

Mule pulled Heath roughly to his feet and shoved him toward the cottonwood tree while he whistled a happy tune. He waved to one of his men to bring over a horse.

 _A horse._ _The_ _worst kind of gallows,_ Heath thought grimly. _No quick death here, just swinging until you can't breathe anymore, and then you get to suffocate._ He squinted up at the rope above his head, sweat stinging his eyes. _On the other hand, a horse might come in handy..._

Heath looked across the yard and locked eyes with Smith, willing him to read his intent, remembering their words just before Smith turned him over to the bounty hunters.

" _If they think they're gonna kill you on the spot - well, then I'll be interfering. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back. I'm going to close these, but they're not locked - can you feel which way to push to pop them open?"_

 _Heath tested it and nodded._

 _"This ought to help them feel comfortable that I'm really turning you over to them. They probably won't worry about restraining you otherwise. You'll have a chance to escape. But if they try to hang you, here, right now - I'm not standing down, Heath. I'm not going to let it happen."_

 _Heath started to argue - then conceded. "Get the AG out of harm's way if you can. I'll get loose and we'll figure it out from there."_

"OK, Barkley, mount up." The masked leader gave him a shove toward the horse.

Heath couldn't stop his practiced eye from surveying the animal before him - stance, energy level, musculature, personality; possible strengths or trouble spots; the quality and condition of the tack. Nor could he suppress a small, ridiculously inappropriate happy feeling as he struggled gasping up into the saddle with no hands and broken ribs. Funny how the world always looked better to him from the back of a horse - even when that horse was his gallows.

He settled himself in the saddle, getting the balance of the horse, feeling her responsiveness to pressure from his knees. He was happy to see the reins would be in reach, knotted over the horse's neck. He quieted his mind, absorbing the layout of the men, guns, and horses around him. He ignored the noose waiting for his neck and tried to make himself ready to move. Then in the next moment, his situation took a turn for the worse.

"I don't trust you, mutt. You're a troublemaker." Mule rode up close beside Heath, and with no warning tied a heavy blindfold over his eyes. Blackness descended upon him.

Smith leaned forward, on full alert. " _Dammit."_ After the nightmares of last night, he had a good idea of what this might do to Heath. "Just hang in, son, steady -" he said under his breath, trying to steady himself as well.

Completely broadsided by panic out of nowhere, Heath was suddenly gasping for air, fighting to maintain his balance and keep his wits about him. Mule sent a right cross into his jaw, then another one for good measure. Heath fell forward over the horn of the saddle, gritting his teeth as the world spun around him. He strained to retrieve his sense of the threats that surrounded him, to recall that picture in his mind like pieces on a chessboard. He had to be able to act before they got that rope around his neck.

There was no more time. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, and he knew the noose was next.

He focused on the sounds, the squeaking of the saddles, the leader's horse blowing that told him which way he was facing. He was nose-to-tail with Heath's mount, which was good - easier reach to grab the rifle from his scabbard.

 _Time to move._

Twisting his wrists, Heath opened the handcuffs, and went for the rifle before the blindfold. He reckoned that if he took the time to get rid of the blindfold first, all he'd be doing is giving himself a view of himself getting his head blown off.

He sang a private paean of joy as he reached into the dark and felt the smooth familiar stock of a rifle slide out of the scabbard in his hands. The leader's barked curse told Heath where his target's head was, and he took him out with the butt of his rifle. Heath had wheeled the horse around and was in a gallop straight for the back porch by the time he reached up to pull the rag from his eyes.


	125. chapter 125

_Carson City, 12:30 PM, September, 1874_

 _This is a nice little quarter horse they plan to hang me with_ , Heath had thought, as he painfully hauled his wheezing, wind-broke self up into the saddle.

 _She's alert, she's paying attention. Nice balanced neck, good muscled hindquarters, legs not too long. Doesn't look like she's lame or been beat up. No way to know how cowy she is, but she's built like a barrel racer. I wonder if she likes to go fast?_

In the brief moments Heath was given to see what the horse could do, he found she lived up to her promise and more. As he twisted to smash the stock of the rifle into Mule's face, Heath sank himself deep in the saddle, leaving the reins on her neck and guiding her with his knees. As the outlaw fell from his horse (his nose and mouth a bloody mess), Heath leaned hard to his left, and the mare responded immediately, sinking low in her hindquarters and pivoting away, then accelerating forward with breathtaking quickness. Heath kept himself low as well, balancing with her, grinning fiercely into her mane as he tore off the blindfold.

"Let's do some racing, girl."

He heard shouts, but no gunfire yet. The mare's blinding burst of speed right into the midst of the relaxed, spectating outlaws had thrown the horses and men into confusion. The scene became even more chaotic as Heath urged the horse through a rapid series of charge-and-pivot moves, knocking men and mounts off balance, the mare gathering herself and banking into turns so low to the ground Heath could've trailed his fingers in the dust as they passed. She was too civilized to step on anyone, but she was more than happy to body slam any horse or man who stood in her rider's chosen path.

Coming around for one more pass, Heath raised the rifle he had been using as a bludgeon among the disordered outlaws (a Henry rifle, he noticed now) and charged straight at the house. He got off six shots: four to his left, two to his right, disabling five of the outlaws by the time any of the gang began to return fire. Reining in and wheeling the horse around at the porch, he dove out of the saddle toward the house.

He was relieved to see the mare promptly sprint out of the line of fire. Rolling and scrambling, dragging the rifle behind him, Heath followed after Smith who was herding Buckner behind a woodpile that offered more shelter than just the low sandstone wall that enclosed the porch. A storm of bullets was now upon them, knocking shards of rock from the walls and shattering windows.

Sawyer heard the gunfire begin as he charged into the graveled courtyard of the farmhouse, backed by Jarrod and Nick on one side, Ramos and Roberts on the other. He hadn't been willing to bring the women into a head-on attack (though they seemed more than willing), but he did station them with Joe to defend the high ground to their west, from which point Sawyer felt he could be outflanked if the bad guys took that position.

Frank saw pretty quickly that Heath had at least evened the numbers some as they arrived. He saw the empty noose swinging in the breeze, saw a few men down and bleeding, and he saw the enemy in disarray. He saw, too, that Heath, John, and Luther were now pinned down behind the house by the heavily armed outlaws.

Heath had softened the target, for sure, but now Sawyer had to figure out how to take them the rest of the way apart, and get the three men out safe besides.

He heard Ramos call to him from the high ground he had taken to the east side. He had climbed on the roof of a small pump house.

"Yo Frank!"

"What do you see?" he called back.

"There's nine altogether, all north of the house. Heath just wounded five of them. Four of 'em look down for the count, one is still kicking, so that's five left for us to deal with."

Hunkered down behind the wood pile, Smith breathed a sigh of relief. "Frank! Nice of you to join us!" he hollered.

Sawyer chuckled. "What can you tell me, John?"

"Ramos' head count is correct. Luther's two men are tied up in the stable. The leader of this bunch is the ugly one with the busted nose."

Frank waved Jarrod over to him. "Jarrod, who's a better shot with a rifle, you or your mother?"

"With a rifle, probably her, to be honest."

"OK, then have her and Audra cover you, and you and Rivka work your way over to that stable and get those men out. I'd send that guy Joe, but he seems a little gimpy. Send him back over here to me instead."

Jarrod nodded. "You got it." His spurred his horse toward the high ground to the west.

Roberts and Nick had, in the meantime, moved themselves out to sheltered positions from which they could cover the north side of the house but still maintain a line of sight with each other. Joe took up a spot behind a low stone wall that gave him an angle on the west side of the farmhouse.

Mule and his remaining four men took cover behind the stone well and the water troughs by the pasture. Mule was still reeling from the blow to his face and the fall from his horse, but beyond being furious, now he was worried. "Godammit, is that really Frank Sawyer out there? I heard he'd come up this way, didn't think it was really so. _Godammit_!" He spat blood and pieces of teeth in the ground, his mind racing to figure what his next move should be. _Frank Sawyer._ This was not good news at all - that marshal was not a lawman who fooled around. His men looked anxiously at each other, muttering. "Shut your yapping and let me think!" Mule shouted at them.

Nick, watching, bared his teeth in a predatory smile and he growled in anticipation. He couldn't hear what was said, but he could tell the bad guys were shook. He periodically scanned the back of the house for any sign of Heath.

The sight of that noose, empty and waiting, was making him a little crazy, he knew. He had gotten a glimpse of Heath, bound and blindfolded, as the outlaw tried to put that rope around his brother's neck. In that moment, galloping toward the house, Nick had no intention of stopping his charge. He would head straight on, under a hail of bullets if need be, until he reached his brother's side.

A blink of an eye later, mayhem had erupted in the yard. He had another glimpse of his blonde brother, hunkered down on the horse's neck, the two moving together as if they were one animal. Shots were fired, a cloud of dust obscured the yard, and then he saw the horse emerge, her saddle empty. In sudden terror, Nick frantically searched the yard with his eyes, looking for Heath. Had he been shot off the horse? He saw men scrambling to get under some cover on the porch. Not seeing his brother down in the yard, Nick was hopeful he had gotten clear - but was he hurt?

Heath, at that very moment, was asking himself the same question. Hunkered down behind the woodpile, John, Heath and Luther ducked as another burst of gunfire sent a shower of splinters and shards of rock raining down upon their heads.

"Where are - where are they shooting from - could you see?" Heath gasped. He couldn't catch his breath. Speaking even that short sentence had been an effort.

Smith lifted his head, looking with concern at Heath. The boy's voice sounded weak, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. "Heath," he said. He didn't get a response - Heath seemed preoccupied with getting himself up off the floor. " _Heath_ ," John said, more loudly. "Are you hurt? Look at me."

Heath was trying to prop himself up and scoot forward to steal a glimpse around the woodpile, but as Smith called his name, he was brought up short by pain so massive he had trouble at first even identifying where it came from. Falling back down onto the floorboards, Heath would have screamed if he'd had the wind for it, he was sure. As it was he croaked out something between a gasp and a whimper. "John -" he rasped out, "what -" _What the hell is this, now? Did I get shot again?_ He dropped his head to the ground, teeth clenched, trying to hold still at least until he could figure out what was happening to him. "I can't - I can't move my right arm -"

John crawled over to him. "Stay down. Stay still. Let me check." He didn't see any blood, that was good. He ran his hands quickly over Heath's chest and back. His fingers, and Heath's grunt of pain, showed him several broken ribs. He moved up to his right shoulder, gently - Smith was pretty sure that shoulder was dislocated, but there seemed to be more. Heath flinched and moaned through his teeth as Smith palpated over his right shoulder blade, where he could feel broken bones moving as he pressed. But when he ran his hand over the collarbone in front, Heath bit back a scream, breaking into a sweat and struggling not to vomit.

"John - I feel like my arm is on fire - but I can't move it. What the hell is it? Did I get shot again?"

"No, that's the good news, son. I don't see any new holes in you so far. But I think you busted up this shoulder pretty good, diving off that horse. Next time you try that stunt, maybe aim for something softer to land on."

"Jeez - I gotta get up - _damn_ this hurts. Was that Frank I heard hollering? S'bout time he made himself useful around here." Smith helped Heath sit up, watching him with worry in his eyes. Heath leaned his left shoulder against the woodpile, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, wiping away sweat and tears of pain with his sleeve. Another barrage of bullets exploded around them.

"Wonder who else Frank has with him," Heath said. "I hope he brought the whole cavalry. At this point I'd like to just hide back here and let him clean up." He tried to smile up at Smith, but his face was pale and lined with pain. He closed his eyes again, wincing. "And hey, John, did you see that pretty chestnut mare _move_? Boy howdy, she's a firecracker. Maybe I'll buy her when this is all over."


	126. chapter 126

_Carson City, 1:00 PM, September, 1874_

"That's all five of them there, you see them? There's four more down in the yard, but they don't seem to be moving much. Mother, Audra, your job is to keep your eyes, and your rifles, on that bunch in the pasture and make sure they can't draw a bead on us. We shouldn't be out in the open for too long - there's pretty good cover between here and the stable." Jarrod looked intently at each of the women, though the one he wanted most to steady and reassure was his baby sister.

Audra was an excellent shot with a rifle, and she was, in her own way, both fierce and fearless. Jarrod knew, however, that those qualities arose from her deep capacity for attachment and empathy. If forced into a position wherein she had to use violence, Audra would do what was necessary, but it would carry an emotional price for her. She was like her brother Heath in that way. And she was _young_. It was easy to forget sometimes, with her height and beauty and considerable intelligence, that she was not yet even 18.

Now, today, Audra wanted to be fierce. She wanted her brother Heath back home. She trusted Jarrod, and his steady blue eyes calmed her, as did her mother's strong presence at her side. She knew her job, and she would do it.

Jarrod turned to Rivka. "You ready, doc?"

"Ready."

Mother and daughter both chambered a round in their rifles and sighted toward the five outlaws. Jarrod and Rivka ran for the stable.

Mule spotted the movement immediately. He still didn't have a plan, but he knew for sure he didn't want those two angry loyal servants loose. "Gordon! Stop them!" he barked at one of his remaining crew.

Gordon moved to get his sights on Rivka and Jarrod, who were now dodging through a stand of eucalyptus. He rose up from behind one of the horse troughs to take a shot, but immediately had to dive for cover as a bullet whined past his ear, and another exploded the water right in front of him.

Luther, huddled against the woodpile, was aware that he was terrified and not thinking clearly. Unlike the two men beside him, he had no military experience. He did not use physical force to do his job, not had he ever really been subjected to physical violence himself. The closest he'd come to combat was hunting, and he disliked that.

He was struggling with how to think about Heath Barkley. He had just seen the man offer up his life in exchange for his, even knowing what the prosecutor intended to do to him in court. A moment later, Luther had seen that same man explode into a blur of violence, leaving six men wounded in a matter of seconds.

Luther had always congratulated himself on his ability to distinguish reality from wishes and illusions, but he was failing miserably on that account in this case. He looked over at Barkley, who was sweating, breathless, and groaning in pain as Marshal Smith carefully helped him to sit up. One thing was clearly evident to Luther. The four riders who showed up at his doorstep last night had great love for this accused man, a feeling that was clearly mutual, and they had searched all day and night to protect him and bring him home.

And not only those four men, but his mother, his sister, the family from San Diego - even his main witness Tom Peterson. The man who had been Barkley's jailkeep was one of his strongest advocates. All of this had to mean something, didn't it?

Luther sighed. It didn't mean anything, really, when it came to the courtroom. It didn't matter that Heath Barkley had many friends and family that loved him enough to drop everything and come to his support. He could be loved, and kind, and generous, and still be a murderer.

 _On the other hand_ , came an increasingly insistent thought, _the accused_ _could be a hated man, a social outcast, and still have committed a justifiable homicide. Isn't that so, Counselor?_

What mattered was Risley. Frank Sawyer's words kept repeating in his mind. _Risley is the_ _exception that proves the rule._

Before Luther could follow out this uncomfortable train of thought, gunfire began to come from a new direction. Luther ducked again, and Smith leaned over him to get a look west of the pasture, toward the stable.

"Heath, your family is here! Jarrod and Rivka are making their way to the stable. Victoria and - yes, I see Audra - they're providing the cover fire. No, don't move," he admonished, as Heath began to make the attempt. "Stay there. They've made it into the barn. I'll watch. Your mother and Audra are in good position. You sit still."

Heath let his head fall back against the woodpile, grimacing in frustration and pain. "Jarrod was with Rivka? John, you think any - any bad guys are in - - in the -" His breath caught, cutting him off mid-sentence. Searching for some way to ease the shrieking agony of his right arm, he tried reaching for it with his left hand, pulling it in close to his chest. " _God_ \- " he choked out, barely audible. He was breathing rapidly through his nose, his lips a thin white line of agony. "John -" he whispered.

"Yeah, Heath," he answered. "I'm watching for them."

"Just - 'm glad you're here -" He opened one eye to look at Luther. "Hey, Buckner," he rasped.

"Yes?" Luther looked up, surprised.

"It'll be alright. Don't w- " Heath grimaced and closed his eyes again. "Don't worry. You'll be - you'll be alright. Cavalry is here. They'll get you out safe."


	127. chapter 127

_Carson City, 1:00 PM, September, 1874_

"Wish I could tell what those four guys are doing that you put down in the yard, Heath," Smith muttered under his breath. "I can't see any of 'em." He could tell Victoria and Audra had an angle on that side of the house, though, and that eased his mind a little.

He moved back over to check on Heath, staying low as there came an exchange of gunfire now to the east side. That would be Ramos, he figured, and probably Jim Roberts and Nick Barkley. He heard a shout of pain. Chancing a look into the yard, he saw another one of Mule's men rolling on the ground, bleeding from a shoulder wound. _Four to go,_ he thought grimly.

He leaned back on the woodpile next to Heath. "How you doin', son?"

Heath swallowed, rolling his head to look at Smith with a slight smile. "I 'spect by suppertime I'll be having a much better day than Mr. Mule."

"Oh, I think Frank's gonna guarantee that."

"Though I -" Heath frowned, bracing himself as the coughing started up again. Shaking his head with a groan, he pulled up his knees and leaned into Smith's side, trying to ease the pain. Keeping his head down, he continued weakly. "Don't know if I'm going to be - in a position to celebrate come suppertime -" His breathing, his color - it was all looking very bad to John, and a voice in his own head was agreeing with Heath about his prognosis.

While Smith was busy arguing that frightening thought out of his head, Heath had opened his eyes and was once again looking thoughtfully at Luther.

"Luther, hope 'm wrong," he husked, having to stop and take a breath every few words. "S'possible I won't - won't be your - problem anymore - soon."

"You shouldn't talk," Luther said anxiously.

Heath chuckled at that, then regretted the movement, grimacing and going very still again. "Ow... you been thinkin', I can - can see that. Listen, you know what the law is. You just gotta - gotta decide - if you're gonna let something," he squeezed his eyes closed, fighting not to cough, swallowed. "... be more important to you - than your duty, your honor. What are - are _you_ willing to risk, Luther? Your life? Your freedom? Or maybe something not - not so - valuable - like your job, or a few votes...?" Heath looked intently at the prosecutor, trying his best to say what he was thinking before he couldn't talk anymore. "Looked to me like the mob was gonna hang you, whether you hung me or not. That's the way it goes with the lynching crowd. Me, I'd rather hang _with_ my honor than - than without it -"

Heath let his head fall back again, panting, his brow furrowed. "Like I said, Luther, what happened, what I did, is there to see. I'm not willing to go to war with you so you can make me out to be a monster and keep your voters happy.

"You want to do the right thing but you don't want to pay a price for the decision. No one does, Luther. But you - you don't get to wash your hands of me. If you trade my - my life - for your political future, I can't stop you. It'll be your choice to do that, Luther, and you won't be able to pretend it's anything else."

Exhausted from talking, Heath had a feeling like he was spinning down a drain. "John, I - I don't know why I feel so - so terrible -"

"I'm not sure either, son, but if you can't lie down all the way, just lean on me little more, see if that helps."

Out in the yard, the battle continued, as the marshals and the Barkleys, and now Bill and Luke, gradually contained and overwhelmed what was left of Mule's gang. Smith could hear the familiar sounds of surrender and arrest. Heath had stopped talking, but was humming softly to himself something that sounded like a spiritual. Eyes closed, Heath tried to drift a little bit away from the pain.

Barely audible, Smith heard him hoarsely singing a few words to go with the tune.

 _Wade in the water_

 _Wade in the water, children,_

 _Wade in the water_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

"Heath?"

His eyes flickered open a moment, his gaze distant. "Hannah. Hannah used to sing me that song when I was scared or hurt..."

"I've heard that tune," Luther offered. "Was a spiritual the slaves would sing. It was a song about crossing the river north to freedom, how the river was touched by God and would heal them of all their pain and worry." He looked at Heath, who had gone back to murmuring the tune softly.

 _What_ _are you willing to risk, Luther?_ he asked himself _. Your job, some votes? Seems rather petty compared to putting your life on the line._

He heard the voices of the women now approaching the house. _So the bad guys must be pretty much wrapped up at this point,_ he thought. He turned to look out the west side of the porch, where Victoria and Audra had risen from their cover and were approaching the house, rifles in hand.

Suddenly, directly in front of him, arose an armed man, one of the outlaws who had been lying wounded in the yard. The man roared wordlessly as he raised his sidearm to point it right at Luther's face. Luther froze as he saw his death staring at him from the black eye of the muzzle.

A shot rang out. Luther stood in disbelief as he looked around and realized he was still alive. He raised his eyes and saw Victoria Barkley lowering her rifle and walking toward him. She stopped and looked gravely at the dead outlaw, and then up at Luther.

"So, Mr. Buckner," she said seriously. "Shall I inform Jarrod that you will be charging me with murder? If you are, we will have to make some arrangements to extend our stay in Carson City."


	128. Chapter 128

_"As every man at heart wishes the best and not inferior society, wishes to be convicted of his error and to come to himself, — so he wishes that the same healing should not stop in his thought, but should penetrate his will or active power. The selfish man suffers more from his selfishness than he from whom that selfishness withholds some important benefit. What he most wishes is to be lifted to some higher platform, that he may see beyond his present fear the transalpine good, so that his fear, his coldness, his custom may be broken up like fragments of ice, melted and carried away in the great stream of good will."_

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 _Carson City, 2:00 PM, September, 1874_

Despite the commotion in the yard in the aftermath of the gun battle, John Smith remained where he was, keeping himself as motionless as he could. He didn't want to disturb or jostle Heath, who was at the moment resting silent and unmoving against his chest.

Heath wasn't "resting", really, in the sense of being relaxed. He seemed anything but. To Smith's eye, Heath was holding himself purposefully, profoundly still, trying to give his mind a little distance from the agony in his body. It was as if he had gone to ground under the searching eyes of a predator, where any movement might bring all the teeth and claws of the beast down upon him again.

Frank Sawyer supervised the clean-up, coordinating the marshals and the Carson City sheriff in their collection of outlaws alive and dead, and sending Luther into the house to be tended to by Bill and Luke. The Barkleys had gathered on the porch, but they soon deferred to Rivka as John told what he knew (though what he knew seemed to him woefully inadequate).

Rivka knelt by the two men on the porch, her expression focused and businesslike. "Tell me."

"He's got a bunch of broken ribs I could feel on both sides. That was from Mule, hit him pretty hard several times when his hands were tied behind his back. I could see he was already coughing and having a lot of trouble breathing just from that. I thought he was going to pass out before they ever got around to hanging him." John watched Rivka's expression grow increasingly stormy.

"So then he got loose on that horse, knocked the bad guys all around, and then when they started to shoot at us, he dove off the horse onto the porch. I'm pretty sure he busted his right shoulder all to hell doing that. It's dislocated, but I think the collarbone and the bones in back are broken. The pain from that seems to be really terrible. He said he couldn't move his arm but it felt like it was on fire. And then his breathing kept getting worse and he just kept looking weaker - I don't know why exactly - he wasn't shot or bleeding anywhere I could see -" The fear he was feeling begin to show, and he appealed to Rivka for answers, for a solution.

"OK, Marshal, you just sit still." Rivka moved a little closer, her eyes active, taking in every detail. She rested her fingertips gently at the side of Heath's neck, feeling the strength and speed of his pulse, watching the rise and fall of his chest. At her touch, Heath opened his eyes just a crack and gave her a half smile and a wink. "Hey, darlin'", he whispered. "You're a beautiful sight for sore eyes...for sore everything, actually...big John here's a good-lookin' man, but he can't hold a candle to you."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, his expression trusting, hers determined, concerned. She relented, finally, and returned the smile, touching his cheek briefly. "Hush, now," she ordered. "Let me finish."

His heart rate was way too fast, as was his breathing, and his skin was cold. Blood loss, most likely, she thought. Internal. And his already compromised lungs had taken a beating again.

Rivka unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it to the side, intending to do as much of an exam as possible without moving him. His half-closed eyes followed her movements, apprehensive, anticipating pain, but trusting nonetheless.

She deliberately left the shoulder for last. She first noted a worrisome discoloration along his flank on the left side, a finding that might indicate significant internal bleeding. Ruptured spleen perhaps. That would go a ways to explain why he looked like he was going into shock. She put slight pressure there, over his upper abdomen, and felt him flinch, involuntarily guarding with his muscles. She filed that observation away - there was little she could do about that except keep him at bed rest, get fluids and eventually some nutrition into him and hope any hemorrhage stopped on its own.

She moved on to locating the broken ribs. She found one low on the left side, probably from the same blow that injured the spleen. She located two broken ribs on the right side in the front, complicated by additional fractures toward the back. Aside from the pain of the fractures, the disruption was severely compromising the mechanics of his breathing, in addition to whatever bleeding or bruising of the lung there might be underneath.

Now for the shoulder. She investigated initially with just a light touch. The right shoulder was definitely dislocated. The collarbone was broken, and badly displaced. She ran her fingers lightly over the area and immediately saw Heath's jaw clench, sweat beading on his face. She could not feel a pulse in his right wrist. His right hand was cool and dusky. She was certain both the blood supply and the nerves to his arm were being crushed by the shattered clavicle. This needed to be repaired immediately or Heath's right arm would die a terrible and painful death, one that would conclude most mercifully with amputation.

Scowling, Rivka abruptly sat back on her heels, and then - quite fluently and in considerable detail - swore like a Philadelphia dock worker.

Nick suppressed an admiring laugh, as he knew Rivka's concerns were serious. He instead put his arm around Audra and pulled her close to him, wanting to ease the fear that was written on her face. Jarrod and Victoria merely raised their eyebrows at each other. Heath's eyes came open with surprise. He looked at Rivka expectantly, all the while watching her face to determine just how angry she was.

"You _dove_. Off a _horse_." It was not a question. It was an accusation.

"Yes, ma'am," he said simply, looking down. "I'm sorry."

Her gaze shifted back to the shoulder, and she sighed. "Oh, my love, the word 'sorry' isn't going to quite cover how you're going to feel." Rivka needed to get him to the operating room at the hospital, as soon as possible. But to transport him there with any kind of mercy...She looked up at Victoria. "I'm going to need a _lot_ of morphine."

"Certainly, dear. Whatever you need, Audra and I will make sure you have it."

* * *

"Mrs. Barkley? Could I have a word?" Luther had come out onto the porch. He was subdued, pensive. He carried a sheaf of neatly prepared legal briefs in his hands.

Jarrod stood beside his mother. "Is that what I think it is, Luther?"

"If you think it's a pile of wasted ink and paper, then you'd be correct, Jarrod." He turned to Victoria. "Thank you for saving my life today. I would have hoped myself capable of learning a lesson without the need of a gun pointed at my head, but apparently that's what it took. I will notify Judge Bentley this afternoon that I do not intend to seek any indictment against Heath."

"That is very good to hear, Luther. We want to bring Heath home."

"I can see that," Luther said, watching as Nick knelt by Heath and laughed over his brother's brief rodeo ride. Luther smiled as well, though sadly. "Heath also saved my life today. More than that, he challenged me to be a better man, not to allow fear make my decisions for me. I hope I will have opportunity soon to thank him myself."

"I am certain you will."

"I've told Bill and Luke to give you whatever assistance you need." He bowed slightly to Victoria and Jarrod, and walked back into the house, singing a hymn softly to himself.

 _If you don't believe I've been redeemed  
_ _God's a-going to trouble the water  
_ _Just follow me down to the Jordan's stream  
_ _God's a-going to trouble the water_


	129. chapter 129

_Children_ , _don't get_ _weary_ ,

 _No_ , _no, oh,_

 _Don't_ _get weary,_

 _Till your work is done._

\- _Traditional_ _Spiritual_

 _Buckner house, 4:00 PM_

Rivka paced in the courtyard of Buckner's home, her arms crossed, alternately scanning the empty road for a sign of Audra returning from the pharmacy, and looking back at the buckboard that had just been hitched up and was waiting to carry Heath into town. Victoria walked out to pace at her side, sensing she could use a sounding board.

"I imagine in some ways these situations are easier for those of us who don't know _all_ the possible hazards and bad outcomes in such detail. Ignorance isn't exactly bliss, but you carry an extra burden, and responsibility." She watched Rivka's face as the younger woman stopped pacing to look back at the house, her brow furrowed with worry. "Do you want to talk it out?"

Rivka nodded, meeting her gaze. "I fear for his heart. His spirit," she said simply.

She took a deep breath, glad to have a chance to say what had been so troubling her. "This injury he has - it's not the fixing of it that worries me. I believe I know what needs to be done to restore the blood flow to his arm and get the pressure off of the nerves, and I'm capable of doing it. Not that success is guaranteed, of course, but I know what I'm dealing with. I can see it, lay my hands on it."

"Then what?"

"The pain is already terrible, you've seen that." Victoria nodded, listening intently. Rivka went on, "Heath's no stranger to pain. But this type of injury - Mrs. Barkley, right now his arm is dying. I'm not trying to be dramatic when I say that every nerve and bone and tendon and muscle in that arm is screaming in agony, and it will continue to get worse as the day goes on. There is no pain like it, that I know of. It will feel to him as if - well, imagine your limb burning with fire, but not consumed - just burning and burning with no surcease. No, you can't imagine, nor can I. No-one can who hasn't lived through it. Morphine will ease it slightly, but nothing will take it away, unless I give him enough narcotic to kill him."

Victoria was beginning to understand what Rivka was driving at.

"Once I repair the fracture, at least for a time after the blood flow is restored, the pain will be just as bad. The reawakening of the limb can be just as excruciating. Just ask Mike what he remembers of his leg back in Carterson. And his vascular injury was not nearly as bad."

Rivka began pacing again, watching for Audra's return. "My religion - my culture - doesn't think much about the idea of Hell, not the way Christians do. But I get the concept. Heath is going to be in Hell until I can fix this injury and get him through the recovery. He will be in Hell, and there will be only so much I can do to ease his passage. Strong as he is, he's been through so much already. I fear he will give up, that it will be more than he can take. He _will_ want to die, at some point, before he gets to the other side. He will want me to let him - let him -" She took a shaky breath, tears in her eyes. "I suppose it is more honest to say that I fear for his heart, _and_ my own."

Victoria also had tears in her eyes, as she stopped Rivka from her pacing and turned her to meet her serious and resolute gaze.

"I will tell you what I told Heath to do with you, not so long ago, when he felt he was going to pieces being locked up and trapped in such a terrible situation. I told him to tell you his fear, to share with you the dangers he saw, and to decide _with_ you how to go forward to meet them.

Victoria gave Rivka a sad, but resolute smile. "Talk to him. Tell him what to expect, what your worry is. Whatever comes, that will at least help you both feel you aren't facing Hell alone."


	130. Chapter 130

_Road to Carson City_ _, 5:00_ _PM_

Rivka drew up and injected another dose of morphine, anxiously checking Heath's pulse. His blood pressure went dangerously low every time she gave him more pain medicine. It appeared to give him a little relief, though, a trough between the waves of misery that would submerge him. His face was still lined with pain, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight, even when he seemed unconscious. He murmured something. Rivka leaned close to him.

"Hannah...?" he called in a whisper, his voice distant.

 _Children, don't get weary,_

 _No, no, oh,_

 _Don't, don't get weary,_

 _Children don't you get weary_

 _Till your work is done._

 _She sat in the rocker by the stove, mending torn miner's shirts to make a few extra pennies. She sang the old familiar tune in a low, sweet voice, keeping time with the creaking rhythm of her chair._

 _"Hannah, it hurts -"_

 _She smiled sadly at the small boy whom she had hoped to get to bed over an hour ago._

 _"I know it, child. That bone is broken, need time to heal. Ain't much can do for it but pray on it."_

 _"It hurts and I can't sleep - when's Mama gonna be home?"_

 _"Soon's she off work tonight, child, but that will be long after your bedtime. You bring your blanket here and sit in my lap if you want."_

 _She lifted the small blonde boy up into her lap, careful of the broken collarbone his Uncle Matt had given him earlier that day. She stroked his hair from his face, the bruising there in stark contrast_ _to his fair skin and his bright blue eyes._

 _"Will you sing me something, Hannah? I always feel better when you sing."_

 _Hannah had been a slave. She knew what it was to be treated worse than an animal. She knew what it was to be in the power of someone like Matt Simmons, even if only for a moment._

 _She had been lucky, as a child, to be on the same plantation as her parents growing up, but her own son had been taken from her and sold when he was not much older than Heath. She had never seen him again. Her Asa. Hannah knew she lived with a wide, gaping wound in her soul, a wound that would never heal until she came into God's presence. But she could still love, and she held Heath close to her and sang until he fell asleep._

 _Wade in the water_

 _Wade in the water, child_

 _Wade in the water_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

 _You see those children, all dressed up in white_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

 _They must be led by the Israelite_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

 _Wade in the water_

 _Wade in the water, child_

 _Wade in the water_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

 _You see those children, all dressed up in black_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

 _You know_ t _hey've come a long way, and they ain't turning back_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

 _Wade in the water_

 _Wade in the water, child_

 _Wade in the water_

 _God's a-going to trouble the water_

The buckboard rumbled down the wide flat road into town. Rivka and Victoria rode in the back with Heath, blankets padding the floor of the wagon. They had wrapped Heath's right shoulder, strapping his arm against his body to stabilize it and reduce some of the discomfort of the moving bones. Rivka had given him several doses of morphine before any of this was attempted, and they were able to accomplish the move to the wagon without too much additional suffering.

She had gone to him once Audra had brought her the medicine. Told him how she thought it would be for him, and just how bad it would get. He listened, taking it in, his blue eyes watching her steadily. It was best, he thought, to know what bad might be coming, to be as ready as he could be for it. He was weak, drained, already worn out from the pain. He knew, just as he did when he was a child soldier, that he was far from invincible. He'd break. He had already, plenty of times, during this hellish odyssey they'd been on. But he could still hold on to hope, and love. He thought he could do that.

Heath lay guarded and tense within the rocking, creaking movement of the wagon. His whole body hurt - every breath he took stirred the toothy demons that seemed to have made their home in his chest, in his belly. They would move and stretch and claw and bite with any disturbance. These seemed to be minor demons, of a sort more or less familiar to a man like Heath. His right arm, though - its new inhabitant was relentless, terrifying in his power to torment. His arm, it seemed, had become the home of the Prince of Darkness, and in his fuzzy, morphine-blurred mind, Heath was in a constant, futile retreat from this invading and overwhelming despot. The Prince was massive, substantial, expanding his reach to fill every nook and cranny of Heath's reality. Heath felt his own self shrinking away under the unceasing assault, withering like a frail transparent leaf before a forest fire.

The burning of his arm waxed and waned, moving with its own tide-like rhythm, never remitting completely, steadily rising higher with each cycle. Each surge began within the hand that was strapped and restrained across his chest. His fingers burst into flames. The fire wrapped around and into and up his arm, while his blood-starved muscles seized up in a vise-like spasm. With each wave, Heath would become restless, sweating, moaning in pain, tears running down his face. He was unable to suppress the instinct to try to pull his hand away from the scorching fire, and he strained against the bandages, his efforts swiftly punished by the agony of broken bones. Over and over, he would fight not to scream. _There is no escape,_ he would think, and then panic would come roaring through his mind.

Rivka was there. Somehow, with each cycle of this seemingly endless tide she would find him and bring him back, remind him that this would not go on forever - and then it would start over again.

She had been right. He did want to die. Absolutely, desperately, with each wave, he wanted to die. He wept and begged her to give him the rest of the morphine and bring an end to this, to him.

"Please. Please...I can't do this anymore. Just end it, please, Rivka -"

He couldn't help himself. She refused him, of course. She knew he would beg, and he knew she would say no. So all that was left to him, as each tide crested and receded, was to take the hand that she reached out to him and hold on, even when he couldn't remember why.


	131. Chapter 131

_Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world._

 _Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5 Babylonian Talmud_

 _Albuquerque, New Mexico, late September, 1868_

Heath sat quietly on the back porch of the Levi's small house, watching the crescent moon follow the sun down in the west and repairing a section of harness. He listened in as the rabbi gave the twins their lessons from the Talmud. He couldn't do much more than sit quietly, still, recovering as he was from a back full of buckshot and other debris he had received a little over a week ago. He'd signed up to help out a friend in the Lincoln County War. He had promised himself, after the army, that he wouldn't ever sell his gun for a killing job, but he'd gotten word that Hannah had taken ill, and the need for some money at home was urgent.

He took his twenty-five dollars for signing on, and few days later, Heath was dry-gulched by a rat of a man who made extra money shooting his supposed fellows in the back, and selling their saddles - the accepted proof of death - to the paymaster. The paymaster, apparently, didn't care to know which side of the battle the saddle came from. That fact alone taught Heath an important lesson about the nature of the "war" he had signed up for.

Too late, though. Heath had escaped death by clubbing the shooter with his rifle butt and crawling away, but then spent a terrible night or two hiding up in a ravine, trying to decide whether to live or die. Actually, he realized, he had decided pretty promptly to live, but getting himself back to the land of the living took a little doing.

He managed to get to a crossroads. His horse was gone along with his saddle. He begged rides via wagon, stage coach, anything moving in the right direction, trying to get to Albuquerque while still salvaging the little money he had to send back to Strawberry. He literally crawled onto the Levi's back porch in the middle of the night, where Hadassah found him in the morning.

He wasn't yet up to the heavy sort of work that he would usually do to repay the family for the open door they kept for him, but he did anything and everything Hadassah would allow him to put his hand to. Rivka came outside when she had finished her schoolwork and sat companionably by him on the step, leaning lightly against his shoulder as she read a book about nautical navigation.

Rabbi Levi was reading a passage from his text to the boys. "This is something you will hear often quoted and discussed. _Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world._ Understand, there are many ways to destroy a soul - we do not speak here just of killing. To shame or belittle, to betray a trust, to frighten or bully - all of these. Similarly, the ways to save a life, to lift up another, are many. Maimonides wrote this: _Every man should view himself as equally balanced: half good and half evil. Likewise, he should see the entire world as half good half evil... So that with a single good deed he will tip the scales for himself, and for the entire world, to the side of good._ Avram, can you give me an example -"

Heath caught his breath, staring down at the harness in his hands, which had suddenly become blurry in the tears that filled his eyes. _How many worlds were lost? Jimmy, Bradley, almost everyone I served with? And how many souls have I destroyed? How can I tip the balance for good? Is it even possible to redeem what I've done?_

"Heath? Why are you so sad?" Rivka had closed her book and was looking at him, worried for the distress she saw there.

She looked so young to him, almost a child, and he suddenly realized she was the age that he had been when he was captured and sent to Carterson. He was so profoundly grateful that she was free of that place, that she could grow up safe and read books about maps and stars. "I was listening to your father, what he was reading. I'm sad - I'm ashamed because I signed up for that pointless blood feud. I took money to go kill men for no good reason. I deserved to be shot in the back. I promised myself I wouldn't make money that way, and - I killed so many men in the war - I can never balance that, can I?"

"You're right about one thing, Heath, signing up was a bad idea. Maybe you should feel grateful to the dry-gulcher that shot you." Heath looked at her, puzzled. "Look, if he hadn't taken you out of the fight so promptly, you likely would have gone on to collect saddles yourself. Aren't you glad he stopped you?"

He laughed. "You are right about that, darlin'. There's always something to feel grateful for, I guess."

"Heath, if you truly feel you aren't a good man - that you don't tip the balance for good - just look at me, my brothers, my family. Look to your people in Strawberry, or the Baums - who, by the way, want you to come to Shabbat dinner this week. Go find Mikey, wherever he is. You are a good man, Heath, and you should have a little compassion for yourself."

"Maybe there's something to feel grateful for even from Carterson," he said. "If I hadn't been locked up there, I wouldn't have you in my life. I'd call that a bargain. I'd pay that price a thousand times over."

He looked into her dark eyes for a long moment, feeling the truth of what he'd just said. Then he cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious, and turned his attention back to the harness in his hands.

Hadassah called from inside the house. "Rivkeleh! I'm going out to see a patient. Come with me."

Heath felt Rivka lean towards him and warmly kiss his cheek. He glanced up, surprised. "A bargain. Yes, you are, definitely," she whispered with a smile, and then she went inside, leaving him breathless.

 _Carson City Hospital, late September, 1874_

The thinnest rim of a crescent moon could be seen hanging over the Sierras, lingering in the warm orange glow of the sun already set behind the mountains. Heath leaned beside the window of his hospital room, gazing west, aching to go home.

 _Waxing crescent moon. It's been two weeks since I crash-landed at Buckner's place. Two weeks since my family and the feds came guns blazin' out of the woods and saved my sorry hide._ He shook his head, bemused as always by the turns his itinerant life had taken, and the people who had become his family.

He looked down at his right hand. In it he held a balled up chamois cloth, which he squeezed repeatedly, as he had been instructed, to build up strength in his forearm.

He continued to marvel at the fact that his arm was once again his, flesh and blood, uninhabited by monsters, and responding to his commands. It seemed miraculous. During those nightmarish few days - when his arm was first dying in agony, and then coming back to life with just as much agony - he had felt as though the limb had become the nesting place of some ravening outside malignant force. Rather than being a small part of him, the arm had expanded into a vast raging war zone that existed only to torture him, a battlefield from which he could not escape.

Rivka had pulled him from that battlefield with her skill and knowledge, and her courage. It took all of that to do what needed to be done for the injury. Even more, it took courage to stay by his side through what seemed to be the fires of hell and bring him safe to the other side. He knew well that seeing a loved one suffer can be as terrible as any torment.

They had talked about it, that night as they prepared to leave for the hospital. She had warned him. She had told him he was going to want to die, that there would come a moment when he would beg her to let him die, and that she would say no. The one thing they promised each other was not to let go, no matter how hopeless or horrible the moment was.

And he had begged her, he didn't know how many times, to end his life. Begging for death, he nonetheless held on to her, trusting she could see the other shore and would guide him safely. Refusing to end his life, she nonetheless held on to him, and stayed by him all through the crossing.

The nerve injury to his arm, fortunately, seemed on course for a full recovery. By two days after the surgery, he had weakness and unpleasant burning and pins and needles from his bicep down to his thumb, but improvement was continuing, and now he mainly noticed some slight numbness in his right forearm and hand that Rivka expected to resolve completely. His main challenge at this point - aside from recouping from massive blood loss and battered lungs - was getting his strength and range of motion back around all the fractures and dislocations that were still healing.

 _That should be right quick, if my task master has anything to say about it,_ he thought with a grin.

Artemis had appointed herself in charge of Heath's rehabilitation, and for the past ten days she had ridden to the hospital as soon as she was done with chores and schoolwork, to supervise him like a drill sergeant. Depending on the day's goals - and Heath's condition - the earnest and energetic redhead would encourage, harangue, challenge, and even compete with her namesake to keep him moving forward.

Just today - with Rivka's approval - Artemis had brought him a new task. She came flying into his room bearing a longbow that stood a hand taller than she, and presented it to him.

"What's this? It's too big for you yet," Heath said, examining it closely.

"I made it over the summer. I know it's too big. It was just such a perfect piece of wood I just had to, even if I couldn't use it right away. I had to have Tommy help me bend it to get the bowstring on." It was nicely made, and he could see her pride in it.

"Then yesterday I realized it's not too big for you. It actually is probably an easy draw for you - or would be, once your arm is better, you know? So I thought you could use it to practice, get your muscles strong again."

"Oh boy," he chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her, "now the pressure's on. If I can't pull this bow I'm really gonna feel like an invalid."

"You are an invalid," she said, matter-of-fact, then backtracked a little when he made a show of being hurt and and insulted. "Well, I mean, you're not an invalid, but your arm is, I mean, it's been messed up and so, you have to get it back to normal."

"I know what you mean, huntress. I'm just kidding, I'm not offended. Seriously, it should be easy for me to pull this thing. But one thing I'm sure of, Artemis, is that it is not going to be easy at all, and will probably hurt like blazes besides, and I'm just gonna have to deal with that and keep going. Right?"

She grinned at him, with a bit of a mischievous sparkle in her eye. "Right. And maybe - maybe I'll keep practicing on it as well, and we'll see who can pull it first."

"Oh, you're on, little goddess. I might not have a chance against you in a foot race right now, but there's no way you're pulling that bow before me."

And so that was his task for the day, and it was a challenge, requiring as it did the hand and forearm strength to hold the bowstring; the full range of motion of the collar bone and shoulder joint; and all the muscles overlying the shoulder blade, which he had broken into several pieces diving off a horse.

It was outrageously painful and difficult, precisely because it required everything his right arm was lacking. He was sweating with the effort, his left arm shaking with fatigue almost as much as his right was shaking with pain and weakness. Heath wondered briefly whether Artemis had resorted to some kind of witchery to come up with such a diabolical exercise for him. But by the end of the day, Hallelujah, he could pull the bow and hold it steady for over ten seconds.

Artemis whooped in celebration, and gave him a big hug, which he happily returned.

"You're brutal, you know that? I never had an officer in the army was as tough on me as you are."

"Love you, Uncle Heath. See you tomorrow."

Looking out at the sunset, he smiled, remembering. Miracles all around him, it seemed.

Off and on, these past two weeks, he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Mostly clear-headed, he was awash with gratitude and awe as he took in the love around him and the prospect of freedom. In these same moments, though, he could suddenly be filled with terror thinking of what could have been lost all along the way, if Mike hadn't survived, or the Levis, or his brothers...and then in the next breath his awareness of the trail of death he'd left behind him could knock him to the ground with grief and the insupportable weight of what was gone. He could never forget that the men he killed were living souls, human beings, someone's son or brother.

Nightmares were still a regular occurrence, though they seemed gradually to be easing in their intensity and macabre detail. Heath had decently long stretches of time during the day during which he felt normal and relaxed. Panic was becoming more the exception than the rule, though he had a particularly bad episode just a day ago, when two dogs started fighting outside his window nearby. Nick had been there, and his combination of brotherly love, greater size, and brute strength helped to contain and settle Heath down in fairly short order.

Rivka had set strict conditions for Heath's activity. She had him on bed rest for a week, and then gradually let him get up and move around, but he'd remained confined to this hospital room. Usually at least one of his family was around him through the day and evening - sometimes all of them at once. But not tonight, for some reason, and he wondered why. He heard the door to his room open and close - then lock, and he found himself suddenly anticipating an intruder rather than a visitor. He turned, on alert, his heart racing.

"Stand down, soldier, it's me," Rivka said, smiling as she walked towards him.

He took a deep breath, consciously trying to relax, though now his heart was racing for other reasons. She had stopped a few paces away and was surveying him from head to toe, thoughtfully, and he began to feel a little fidgety and restless under her intent gaze.

"Artemis tells me you did well today."

He laughed. "Don't think she'd allow me to do otherwise."

"Well," Rivka said, coming closer to him now, "it's been two weeks, and I think we can start lifting the restrictions on your activity. You haven't shown signs of any more bleeding, and you have a good bit more color than you did."

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his attention on what she was saying, though all he was really aware of was how good she smelled. "I think my family has fed me an entire steer just in the past week alone -" His breath caught slightly as she started to unbutton his shirt.

She moved the shirt aside to uncover his right shoulder and evaluate the healing. "Let's see," she said, her tone businesslike. Her proximity, the sensation of her warm hand moving over the bare skin of his chest - it was making him feel anything but businesslike, and he bit his lip, one hand surreptitiously gripping the window sill beside him.

"Any pain here?" she asked, sliding her hand down over his stomach, the other hand moving over his ribs, as she moved a little closer.

He shook his head, swallowed, then managed a "No -" when she looked questioning up at him.

He kept still, his eyes on her face, watching, waiting, wanting, _wanting_. She held his gaze for a long moment, her expression serious. "My love," she confessed, "I have not only given your family the night off, I have shamelessly abused my authority as a physician and sent home your nurses as well. I want you all to myself."

Then she smiled, slowly, and put her arms around him, and Heath suddenly felt he could breathe again. He buried his hands in her hair, kissing her as if she were the only thing that could save him from starvation. He wanted to bury himself in her and never again come up for air.

She yielded to his kiss, opening her lips to him, enjoying the strength she could feel in his arms. His hands came up to caress her shoulders, gently removing one article of clothing after another. Heath moaned, kissing her neck, his roaming hands now at her hips, eager to explore all of her curves. She laughed softly, still kissing him, as he moved her back toward the bed.

"Get those boots off," she whispered, as she lay back and looked up at him. Then she pulled him down to her, wanting more than anything to feel his weight on her, his warmth, his desire.

Some time later, the couple lay naked upon the narrow hospital bed, feeling the cool night breeze on their skin as it wandered in through the open windows. Heath was flat on his back, breathing like he had just run a foot race, his skin glazed with sweat. Rivka made her way up to entwine herself beside him, having just used her mouth to draw feelings from his body that he was having difficulty describing. Words like "volcanic" came to mind, except there was nothing unpleasant in what he had just experienced.

Staring up at the ceiling, he slowly came back to himself. "Oh, my Lord, Dr. Levi. What are you _doing_ to me...?" he whispered.

"I am enjoying you every way I possibly can without becoming unintentionally pregnant," she said matter-of-factly.

He lifted his head to look at her, then dropped it back down with a laugh. "That wasn't exactly what I meant, but now that you mention it, you'd better educate me on what we can and can't do, darlin'."

"I will do that. What _did_ you mean?"

He rolled toward her, stroking his hand from her shoulder down to her hip, then back up to the curve of her breast. "I meant I think you're doing some kind of old country witchcraft on me, girl. You make me feel things like I've never...I felt just then like - like I'd been struck by lightning - except the lightning was coming out of _me_."

He continued to caress her breast, thoughtfully, and her breathing quickened. He looked seriously into her dark, smiling eyes.

"Witchcraft. You're working some kinda mojo on me, Dr. Levi. Don't know what it is yet. I'm going to have to think this through."

He smiled and kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth as his warm hand slid between her thighs. "Oh, love, oh, yes - -" She gasped and began to move with his touch, sighing his name.

Rivka loved how they fit together. She raked her hands through his hair, deepening the kiss. She wanted to feel him on every inch of her skin. He held her close, lost in the rhythm they created, a wordless hallelujah ringing within him.


	132. chapter 132

_Carson City, October 1, 1874_

"Time to head out. I told Mike we'd get out to their place about 11 AM." Jarrod began herding the family outside. Heath surveyed the room one more time to make sure nothing was left behind. He had no interest in ever returning to this room, or to this hospital - or to this town, truth be told, except to visit the Peterson family.

Nick looked like a kid on Christmas morning at the prospect of getting Heath back home and returning to life on the ranch. Audra clearly had a secret that she was busting to share, one that Nick and Rivka were in on, but she wouldn't crack despite all of Heath's efforts to find it out. Heath was impressed with her resolve - he really had tried the whole range of strategies that would usually work on his little sister. It only left him feeling even more curious.

Rivka came and slipped her arm through his. Her presence here with him still felt a bit like a dream. As did her visit with him last night. He flushed, remembering, and he slipped his hand around her waist. She glanced up at him with a wink. He was suddenly certain he wouldn't mind sending the family on ahead, so he and his girl could spend a little more time in that hospital room. He took a deep breath, and she laughed softly, leaning into him.

Several saddle horses were tethered outside. Heath looked hopefully at Rivka, but she shook her head no and steered him to the surrey Victoria was driving into the courtyard.

He sighed, and with a wistful look back at the horses, he greeted his mother with a kiss.

"Heath, I'm guessing at the very least you want to drive."

Heath helped Rivka up into her seat. "Mother, you couldn't be more right."

It was a beautiful day, and he took inordinate pleasure in the drive to the Peterson's home. The feel of the reins in his hands, the movement of the river, the sound of the horses' hooves on the dirt road were all intoxicating to him, as was the sound of his family around him.

"You're quiet, Heath," Victoria said.

"Just taking it all in, Mother."

They arrived to the Peterson home, where they planned to have a picnic before beginning the train ride home. Lunch, and laughter, and the whirlwind of the five children playing around them, all seemed equally miraculous to Heath, mixed with sadness and regret, knowing the terrible burden his misadventures had placed upon his family and friends. He wondered how he could ever make it up to them.

Heath tried to shake off that gloomy thought, as Jarrod stood at the head of the table, and assumed the role of master of ceremonies. Jarrod smiled at Heath and toasted him with his glass of lemonade.

"May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen. We have a few things for you, little brother, that I think will bring you happiness."

"I'm already happy, big brother."

"OK, well, these things, I expect, will _add_ to your already considerable happiness."

"I can't wait." Heath smiled at Rivka sitting close beside him.

Jarrod turned to the group, gesturing with his glass. "First up, we have Anton Ramos, soon to be Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Ramos for the State of Nevada. Marshal, I think you have something for my brother."

"He does?" Heath wondered.

"Yes, I do," Ramos said, approaching Heath with a rolled bundle in his hands. Unwrapping it on the table, he returned to Heath the rifle, gun belt, and boot knife that he had collected from him three months ago. "I'm very happy to be giving these back to you, Heath. I wish you the best."

"Thanks, Anton. It was an honor to be arrested by you."

"Next, I think Artemis has a gift." The redhead bounced up from her seat and ran to get the present she had hidden nearby.

"Is it some liniment? 'Cause you've given me plenty of sore muscles."

She brought him a cloth quiver containing six arrows. "I think these are my best yet," she said earnestly. "I made them long enough for the bow I gave you yesterday. We're going to hike up to the north ridge to have target practice later," she informed him.

Heath examined the arrows, nodding, impressed. He hugged her. "Thank you, huntress. Thank you for everything." He leaned toward Mike, who was grinning widely, and whispered, "She's going to kill me, you know that, don't you?"

Mike burst out laughing and nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. She's probably going to make you race her to the top of the ridge."

"Now these next few items are from Marshal Smith, who was called back to Sacramento and couldn't be with us here today. He did, however, send this packet to you by courier."

"Courier? What is it, Jarrod?"

"I honestly have no idea. Here's a letter from him that's attached."

"Well, go on, Heath, read it!" Nick and Audra both chorused, leaning forward in their seats.

Heath took the letter, feeling suddenly a little anxious. He glanced at Rivka, who was smiling encouragingly. "Do you know what it is?"

"I have an idea, but go ahead."

Heath opened the handwritten note first and read aloud.

 _Dear Heath,_

 _I am_ _sorry I can't give these to you in person, but I wanted to get them to you as soon as possible._

 _Your friendship has been one of several surprising blessings that have resulted from these past few months, and one I value more than I can say._ _I hope what I've sent will communicate something of the respect I feel for you._

 _In the meantime, I look forward to seeing you safe and sound at home in Stockton within the next few weeks. I have a very important dinner engagement there that can't wait._

Heath raised his eyebrows expectantly at Victoria. To his amazement (he was certain he didn't imagine it), she blushed.

Suppressing a smile, he went back to the letter.

 _With my best wishes,_

 _Yours,_

 _John Smith_

 _U.S. Marshal_

 _(Acting Head Federale for Everything West of the Rockies)_

 _Sacramento, California_

"Acting _what_?" Nick asked.

Chuckling, Heath picked up the official looking envelope, puzzling over what it could be. "I'll explain after. Hey, Nick, do you think he's maybe granting me immunity for any future disorderly conduct charges I get for the next ten years?"

"Now that would come in handy."

Heath broke the wax seal and drew out a letter on heavy, expensive-looking stationery, as well as a small packet wrapped in dark blue satin. Heath hefted that in his hand as he scanned the letter. He grew still, then read it through again, frowning slightly.

"Jarrod?" he said hesitantly.

"Heath, what is it? What does it say?"

"Is this what I think it is? Could you read it?" He looked almost fearful.

Worried now, Jarrod took the letter, the whole assembled group now listening intently. He read it out loud, a smile growing on his face.

 _To: Staff Sergeant Heath Thomson Barkley_ _of Stockton, California_

 _From: William Worth Belknap, Secretary of War, Washington, D.C._

 _Mr. Barkley,_

 _This_ _letter shall document and confirm your honorable discharge from the United States Army, 5th U.S. Infantry, such discharge being retroactively effective on the 19th day of March, 1865, with the rank of Staff Sergeant._

 _Furthermore, in recognition of acts of gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of your life and above and beyond the call of duty,_ _I am further authorized by President Ulysses S. Grant to present to you this Medal of Honor of the Army, which is awarded to such officers, non-commissioned officers and privates as have most distinguished themselves in action._

 _It is with thanks for your loyal and distinguished service to our nation that I am,_

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _William W. Belknap, Secretary of War_

 _Washington, D.C._

 _Signed this 29th day of September, in the year of our Lord 1874._

Heath sat speechless, holding the blue satin packet in his hand. Rivka wrapped her arms around him and whispered in his ear, "It seems John has been able to put some sense into the heads of the evil bureaucrats already."

Mike was ecstatic. Nick and Jarrod came over to slap Heath on the back and congratulate him, while Audra gave him a kiss. Victoria came and sat beside him, with tears in her eyes to match his own.

"I don't know what to say," he said softly. "I have no words. Maybe I'll come up with some by the time John comes to visit."

"I am happy for you, Heath. I'm happy for all of us, because this is it is as it should be."

"He loves you, you know."

"I know. And you." She sat up a little straighter, and Heath watched her face, because this was usually a sign she was going to say something of import. "You know, Heath, there are many ways to a woman's heart. Being tall, handsome, and intelligent gets your foot in the door, yes. But even more important is a man's honor, his loyalty, both to the woman and to the ideals they both value. And one _very_ powerful way, is when a man shows he can be a good father to her children." She smiled up at Heath, thoughtful. "Heath, I know you think you came to us empty-handed, riding in last year like a lone wolf looking for his pack. You feel that you have received far more than you have given. What I see, Heath, when I look at you, is how much you have enriched our family, not only with the gift of yourself, but also with the people and the relationships you have gathered over the years. On a day like today, all I need do is look around me to see how you have blessed this family."

"I still have no words," he said, returning her smile.

"There's one more thing," Nick announced loudly. Heath looked up, surprised. "John sent Audra and Rivka and I on a little goose chase, but we stuck with it, and I think we accomplished our mission. Audra?"

A huge smile on her face, Audra jumped up and insisted Heath close his eyes. "I've waiting for this for days!" she said, and she ran off.

His eyes dutifully closed, Heath said, grinning, "Hey, Mikey, I just realized something. You know what this means?"

"No, what?"

"I outrank you now."

"Oh, don't even -"

Audra reappeared. "OK, Heath, you can look now!"

Once again he was speechless. He sat with his mouth open, looking at the lovely chestnut quarter horse who had raced for him and knocked down so many bad guys. Finally he squeezed Rivka's hand, took a breath, and then walked to the mare's head. "Hey girl," he said softly. "Boy howdy, am I pleased to see you. I thought I'd have to hunt all over Nevada to find you again." He ran his hands over her neck and back as he spoke, coming back around to stroke the white blaze on her face. The mare was attentive, listening, following him with her ears, and she nudged his shirt with her nose.

Heath looked into the horse's eyes, and she looked right back at him. "I bet you wanna go for a run, don't you, girl. Maybe show off a little." Heath sent an appealing look to Rivka, hoping, and she shook her head emphatically. No. He sighed. "OK, girl, maybe next week, if the boss says it's alright."

* * *

 _AN: It occurred to me as I finished this chapter that the issue of military rank is another concrete example of the social and economic differences in the brothers' upbringing, and the impact of the father's absence on Heath's life. Nick (and I think Jarrod as well, though I can't come up with a specific reference from the show at the moment) would have entered the military as commissioned officers, because of their education and social standing. Nick is described as his general's second in command in one episode._

 _Heath, on the other hand, would have been an enlisted man, and unless the system was very different in the 19th century, he would have entered as a Private, and I believe Staff Sergeant would be the highest rank he'd be likely to obtain in 3 years of service. Any commissioned officer, as I understand it, even a brand new lieutenant with no experience, outranks even the most senior NCO with a lifetime of service. Commissioned officers and NCOs move in_ _completely_ _different orbits, from what I've seen, and I'd think if you had both types within the same family, especially within siblings, it could create some interesting tensions._


	133. Chapter 133

_Peterson house, October 1, 1874_

Nick and Heath sat companionably shoulder to shoulder on the top rail of the pasture fence, watching Audra put the chestnut mare through her gaits on a lunge line. Rivka was out there with her, and they laughed together over something as the lively horse circled them. Riding bareback on the quarter horse was Artemis, a big smile on her face, her long red hair flying behind her and her hands resting relaxed on her thighs.

"OK, good, keep her right at that pace. When you're ready, tell her to pivot and pick up the canter going the other way, on the opposite lead," Audra called to her. "Shift your weight, use that outside leg to tell her which way to spin. Good! Nice job!"

"Brings me back," Nick said with a nostalgic smile. "Audra was something of a barrel racing prodigy when she was that age, did you know that?"

"I've seen a few of the ribbons and trophies she's kept. Would've loved to have seen that. I can just picture her flyin' out of the gate."

"How did Artemis get the privilege of the first ride?"

"It was her price for not making me hike up the north ridge this afternoon."

Nick laughed. "Good deal." He grew serious. "I can't wait to get home. I can't wait to get _you_ home. I've really missed you, Heath. And yes - I know what you're thinking - yes, there's a lot to be done, and yes I need you there. But the ranch is managing OK with McCall and Uncle Jim, there's no big crisis, and Silas is watching the house. It's _you_ I miss. You know?"

"Oh, Nick, I know, big brother, I know. Few times through all this, coming home started looking like some impossible far-off dream, like my whole life there was something I had only imagined. And when I was runnin' up in the hills, boy howdy, Nick, did I ever miss you then. Would 'a given just about anything to have you with me."

Heath glanced at Nick, then dropped his gaze to the stalks of sweet-grass he had been twisting together. "One thing I discovered. You get chased for a couple of days by a whole town of righteous farmers and trigger-happy bounty hunters wantin' to hang you from the nearest tree - next thing you know, a ten-year stretch in the state prison starts to look like not such a bad place to end up. Hell, got to where the best I was hoping for was just to be hanged by someone who could at least get it done quick. The thought of those amateur executioners scared me 'bout as much as anything else." He took a deep breath, a pained expression on his face. "That's not a lesson I ever wanted to learn."

Uncharacteristically, Nick decided not to give voice to the anger he felt over the whole ordeal, and instead just put his big hand on Heath's shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

Jarrod strolled up to rest his forearms on the top rail of the fence next to Heath. "She's beautiful."

"Which of the four beauties out there are you referring to, counselor?"

"Take your pick," he conceded. "I can see why you two have been sitting here so long."

"I thought of another beauty that would make a nice gift for you today, Nick," Heath said. "Something to make you happy."

"For me? Just getting your pretty face home is present enough for me, boy."

Heath pushed back the brim of his Stetson and squinted out toward the road. "Here he comes now. Special delivery from Wellington."

It was Nick's turn to be speechless as he watched Jim Roberts and Frank Sawyer trot into the Peterson's yard leading the very bull that Heath and he had purchased back in June. Both marshals were laughing at Nick's expression.

"He is gorgeous, no argument there," Jarrod said. "McGowan's bait. I'd forgotten about how all this started."

"Well _I_ didn't forget. I told Jim once he cleaned house down there and got the case settled, I wanted that damn bull."

"And here he is, Heath," Roberts grinned. "Go on home and take your damn bull with you."

"I think I will." Heath elbowed Nick. "C'mon, y'old cowpoke. Tell me that damn bull don't make you happy."

"Yes. Yes, he does, you're right."

Nick and Heath hopped down from the fence as the two marshals dismounted. Heath turned to Frank, acutely aware of how far the older man had traveled and how much he had done to try to protect him. "Frank, I -"

"Yeah, I know. Heath, you're like family. I know you'd do the same for me. You all just get home safe. I'll come visit and you can feed me and pour me some of that excellent scotch Jarrod drinks."

"You bet. Anytime. You and Jim heading south now?"

"Yep. Figure we'll ride together to Wellington, then I'll cross over to Jubilee from there."

"Travel safe, both of you."

As the two marshals rode off, Artemis cantered over, followed by Audra and Rivka.

"I think Artemis has decided on the horse's name," Rivka announced, sharing a smile with Audra.

"Really? What's it going to be?" Heath turned back to lean on the fence.

"Nike," Artemis said, pronouncing it ' _ni_ -kee' as her mother had taught her.

Jarrod nodded immediately. "Yes. Yes, that's perfect."

"Nicky?" said Nick, looking confused.

"No, _Ni-ke_."

"Educate me," Heath said. "Who's Nike?"

"She is the Greek goddess of strength, speed and victory. She has wings, and she flies into the field of battle to bring success to those she favors," Artemis said, grinning at Heath. "Her mother was the goddess Styx, who was also the goddess of the river that separated the world of the living from world of the dead. Styx was honored by Zeus for her loyalty and honesty. And - Nike's name, to the Romans, was Victoria."

"You're right, that's perfect. I love it. Nike it is." Heath ran his hand over the mare's neck and pulled on her forelock. He paused, turning back back to the group. "Just so we're all clear, though. I'm _not_ naming this pretty horse after my big scruffy brother."


	134. chapter 134

_Peterson house,_ _October 1, 1874_

"Artemis, you got to ride her, so you get to groom her. No skimping now. Nose to tail, and clean her feet, too."

"You bet, Uncle Heath. C'mon, girl," Artemis happily led the mare to the barn. Audra, Nick, and Jarrod walked along beside her, laughing as they swapped childhood rodeo memories.

Rivka put her arm around Heath's waist and hugged him a little as they both watched the group move away. "What a different childhood, a different _life_ you would have had if you'd grown up with them," she mused. "It's hard to imagine. Horse shows and rodeos, and an officer's commission, that is, if they'd even _consider_ letting you join the Army, which they probably wouldn't until you finished college - and who knows what else. I knew this before, but it hits me differently now."

"Wait'll you see the house and the ranch. It still amazes me. I wonder if it'll ever seem just routine."

Thoughtfully he turned to face her. He gently straightened the collar of her shirt, brushing his fingers alongside her neck in a way that gave her very pleasant shivers up and down her back. "I sure did come here by a different road. Crossed a few hills. But just look at who I met along the way. Wouldn't trade you for all the riches in California." He kissed her, his warm hands now caressing her back, and she leaned into him. But then he pulled back, looking serious, and said, "They're expecting you in San Francisco soon. Didn't you say the tenth? Or the twelfth?"

She had to laugh at him.

"What's so funny?"

"You get this dutiful look on your face. You're worried about getting me safely to San Francisco, but clearly what you _want_ to do is keep kissing me and letting your hands go where they please." She smiled up into his eyes, scattering his dutiful thoughts and making his heart race.

"You are so right about that," he whispered.

"Thing is," she studied his face, "I'm not sure how much _doing_ you have left in you right now. In fact I'm a little worried about you traveling today," she said. "You're looking all stove in."

"They learn you those fancy words in doctor school, do they?" He leaned back against the fence as he spoke, giving her a smile, but she was right, he felt plenty stove in.

He looked down then, the brim of his hat hiding his facial expression. The movement was so ingrained in him, it was as automatic as it was unconscious, a protective habit he'd picked up on the rough trail that had been his life. It was a way to hide vulnerability - or other kinds of reactions that might put him in harm's way - when he couldn't quite manage a poker face.

Pain and fatigue had just now rather abruptly reasserted their claim on him, annoyed at having been ignored for much of the day. Grimacing, Heath reached across with his left hand to take some of the weight off his right shoulder and support his right arm, which had started to ache and burn. Standing upright was also rapidly becoming a challenge.

He felt Rivka's hand on the side of his face. "Don't hide from me, Heath. This is the first day you've been out and around. I can see you're in pain. Let's go rest a bit, have some lemonade, see how you feel."

He nodded, and they walked back to the house, fingers entwined. "Wonder how lame I'd be right now if you'd-a let me get on a horse today?"

The shade of the Peterson's porch was a welcome relief. Heath collapsed back into one of the rocking chairs with a groan, arming the sweat from his brow and laying his hat on his knee. He leaned back, eyes closed, enjoying the slight breeze and the chatter of a nearby flock of house sparrows.

He heard his brothers and Audra returning from the barn. "Is that Ramos coming back down the road? I thought he had to get back to work this afternoon." Nick wondered.

Jarrod agreed. "Yes, I heard him say that - who's riding with him, can you see?"

Heath opened his eyes, telling himself there was no reason to be nervous, _no reason, just settle yourself_ -

Victoria stood at the porch rail. "Yes, I can see," she said, and her tone of voice made him very nervous.

"It's Luther. And from what I can see, neither of them look very happy."


	135. chapter 135

_Peterson house,_ _October 1, 1874_

"Can he _do_ that, Jarrod? How is that - it's just - how is this possible? It's just _wrong_." Anguished, Audra was giving voice to the questions assailing each of them in one form or another. She turned, appealing, from Jarrod to her mother. "Mother?"

Victoria shook her head, maintaining her calm but deeply concerned. "I don't know, Audra. Jarrod, is there anything we can do?"

Heath was pacing along the porch rail, nervously twisting a stick of deadwood in his hands. He stopped at the far corner of the porch and stood staring out at the pasture, eyes narrowed. Rivka watched him with worried eyes as she went to stand by Victoria. She could see his jaw was tight, and she suspected he was working that branch in his hands mainly to keep them from shaking.

 _A few minutes ago, his main worry was how terrible he was going to feel taking a long train ride home, and that wasn't much of a worry at all._

Jarrod frowned down at the legal documents in his hand, reviewing them one more time as he sorted out his legal thinking from the anger - and yes, some fear - that was clamoring for his internal attention. Glancing up, he met Nick's eyes. His brother's intense, unguarded expression was a mirror of Jarrod's own feelings, and they shared the same question: _What is Adam Risley up to?_

The documents in his hands had been served to Heath a moment ago by Deputy Marshal Ramos, his usually placid face a mask of distaste and controlled fury. Luther looked nauseated, as though his presence there in front of this family was causing him physical pain. To his credit, though, green around the gills as he was, he spoke first, and got right to the point.

"Adam Risley has fired his attorney, and has decided to represent himself at trial. Risley's first action, the moment Thatcher was removed from the case, was to withdraw all of the many pending requests for postponement that had been entered by his former counsel, and request his case be heard at the earliest time slot available.

"He has also withdrawn the defense's consent to have Heath Barkley's testimony read into the record from his written deposition. This means that Heath will have to testify in person, here, in court, if we hope to use his statement as evidence - which I very much want to do.

"Further," Luther said, forcing himself to look at Heath as he spoke. "Risley has been granted a subpoena, which the marshal will serve to you now, ordering you, Heath, to appear in court tomorrow for deposition by the defense. Risley had chosen to exercise his right as defense counsel to interview you himself in advance of trial. Refusal to cooperate would subject you to arrest and detention."

 _Interview_.

"I'm afraid I can't let you leave town." Ramos met Heath's look with an expression of silent appeal. _Please don't make me arrest you._

Heath nodded and silently accepted the documents from the marshal, barely glancing at the carefully written legal phrases. _Interview..._ he then handed the documents to Jarrod without meeting his eyes, and walked some distance away from the group, looking out toward the fields. Jarrod began reading them through. Heath heard it in fragments, the phrases like shards of glass that would lacerate if he handled them too closely.

 _...commanded to appear in the State of Nevada federal district court at the time, date, and place shown below...must remain at the court until the judge or a court officer allows you to leave...should you fail to comply with this summons, a warrant has been issued ordering any authorized law enforcement officer to place you under arrest as a witness for which proceedings are necessary pursuant to...such officers are further authorized to detain you until this court orders discharge from custody..._

Jarrod looked up as the deadwood broke in Heath's hands with a loud snap. Nick was already moving to Heath's side.

 _Interview...authorized to detain..._.Heath could taste dust in his mouth, unaware that his hand was bleeding, cut by the broken stick. He no longer saw the pasture. He saw the floor of a hot, airless prison shed, he was pinned down and helpless, and his mouth tasted of dust and blood.

 _"Seems it's my turn to say welcome home, Barkley."_

 _Footsteps, his face in the dirt, hands moving over the scars on his back._ _"These are mine." Laughter._

 _Heath flinched away from the touch, his eyes now squeezed shut. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest. Don't give him that, he ordered himself. Be still. Don't react. What does he want -_

 _"I've told you what I want, what I intend, boy. You are mine. **My** prisoner. I want to see you crushed under the weight of the law you and your degenerate family called down upon me. You cannot stop me, because I am like the heroes of myth and legend. I have no other purpose, no higher goal, and I care not what happens to me."_

 _Dust and blood._

 _"It's been a pleasure to know your friends and family are so accessible as they gather round to support you in your time of trouble."_

"Heath."

 _"...so accessible..." Hands holding him down._

"Heath, look at me."

He startled away from Nick, already throwing a punch, fighting back before he'd even fully turned around. Nick was ready. He'd seen from across the porch that Heath was caught in some other battleground. He ducked easily, catching up the smaller man in his arms until he came back to himself, and then quickly turning the restraint into an affectionate hug.

Heath stared into his brother's face, heart pounding. Nick could see the rapid succession of terror, confusion, relief - and then shame and remorse - pass over Heath's expression like the shadows of storm clouds in a high wind. In the seeming calm that followed, Heath looked down and noticed his bleeding hand. He shook his head, drained and sad. "Nick - I'm sorry -"

"C'mon, boy, let's go for a walk. Get another look at that pretty pony you named after me."

Heath nodded, even giving Nick a brief smile for his jibe as they stepped off the porch. They walked off together. "You lost me ten bucks that day you dumped those giant boys in the pond," Nick laughed, remembering the chase through the barn.

"I think it was twenty."

Heath's soft southern drawl never failed to make Nick smile - that is, as long as Nick himself wasn't all fired up in a temper about something. And even then -

"You're right, boy, I think it _was_ twenty."

Heath grew serious again. "Nick - how long was it that you were gone?" He sounded uncertain, even a little lost.

"What do you mean?"

"From when you got out of the camp until Leviathan. How many days?"

"You don't know?"

Heath shook his head.

Nick realized that this admission - from this brother with his uncanny sense of time - was scaring him far more than patching up Heath's knife and bullet and buckshot wounds ever did.

"The doctor asked me, that first night after you found me - asked me how long it had been since we'd been arrested, how long since I ate, how many times did - did Risley -" Heath stopped, frowning, then said, "I didn't know. I guessed. I thought maybe 2 or 3 weeks, but I - I couldn't keep track after a while -"

"Heath -"

"He got under your skin, didn't he. That night at Leviathan. You never told me, but I could tell. He got inside your head."

"Oh yes. He got under my skin all right." Nick shuddered slightly.

"Didn't take him long."

"No." Nick was starting to understand where Heath's thoughts were going. "It was twenty days, Heath."

Heath took in that piece of information. His eyes on the ground, he kicked a stone ahead of him as they walked. "I'm scared of him," he admitted. "All that time, it was just him, no other voices, no food, no light, no sleep, just him and his whip and his words crawling into my head like rats. I'm not there now, I know I'm not, but the idea of being trapped with him again - it scares me, and he knows it. He _knows_ it. And somehow - somehow, he's planning to use that."

Nick was silent for a long moment, absorbing what Heath had just shared with him and keeping a hand on his shoulder as they walked. "But _you're_ not trapped, really - it's a subpoena, yes, but he's still the defendant, right? He's the one with the death penalty hanging over him. He's not going home to have dinner with his family at the end of the day. It's public, it's a court of law. He can't hurt you," Nick countered. "But what _is_ he up to? He has to be after something more than just rattling you in a cage. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I think so. I don't know what. I wish I did. Wish I could think of a way to turn it back around at him -"

... _such a_ _pleasure to know your friends and family are so accessible..._

Heath stopped and turned to face Nick. "I know one thing for sure. I want the family gone. Out of town. As soon as possible. Tonight."

"What? Leave you here alone? Now? Come on, Heath -"

"What do we know for sure about Risley, Nick? He will hunt the people I love. He will hunt and threaten them, use them to attack one way or another. I can't deal with him and be worried about the family's safety."

"I understand that, Heath, but if he's counting on being able to get to _you_ , how much easier is that going to be for him if you're alone? Not to mention, this town is still plenty unfriendly to you, and someone's gotta watch your back. I vote me."

Heath wanted to argue. He didn't want Risley anywhere near anyone he cared about - but he truly didn't want to go into this alone. He knew Nick was right. He looked up at Nick for a moment, thinking, then shook his head with a sigh.

"Ain't gonna vote against you, big brother." His expression was grim, but the relief he felt was plain to them both. "We got into this mess together. Only right we finish it together."


	136. chapter 136

_Carson City, evening, Oct 1, 1874_

The two brothers stood side by side, watching as the train to Reno chugged north out of the rail station. The red tail lamps of the caboose moved beyond their sight, and they began their walk back into town.

"I thought we were going to have to hogtie Jarrod to get him to stay on that train."

"You know he's turning around and coming right back from Sacramento once Audra and Rivka and Mother are safely on their way to Stockton."

"Yeah, I know." Heath understood Jarrod's reluctance, but none of them - the women included - were comfortable with the idea of the women traveling without some armed male escort, at least until they were well west of the divide and closer to their home ground. None of them had any clear idea of Risley's intent, but they remembered, as a cautionary example, that he had resorted to kidnapping Mickey's pregnant wife in order to coerce his cooperation. The decision to remove at least the women to safety was eventually agreed upon.

"I can't wait till I'm out of this town myself," Heath commented. He looked around a bit as he and Nick turned onto the sidewalk of the main thoroughfare. He tried forgetting for a moment that he was still stuck in Carson City and under a subpoena, and just enjoy being an otherwise-free man, out with his brother, wearing his own clothes, his gun belt and sidearm a familiar weight tied against his right leg. "How 'bout you buy me a beer, Nick?"

"Good idea."

They turned into a likely-looking saloon and took an open space at the bar. Nick ordered two beers.

The atmosphere in the room didn't change abruptly. The shift to a wintery chill was initially imperceptible. Heath noticed it first, watching the room as he was over the rim of his mug. One or two locals had identified them, and the information was now steadily propagating around the room. Lively conversations ended, to be replaced by stares, silence, or muttered commentary.

Nick noticed his brother's silence first. Though Heath was continuing to drink his beer, his blue eyes were narrowed, intent, scanning the crowd for any immediate threats. Nick looked around the room, the change in feeling now glaringly obvious. "Oh, _hell_ ," he growled, under his breath.

"Yeah," Heath agreed.

"Much as I'd dearly love to knock a bunch of heads together here, what do you say we just head quiet-like back to the hotel and call it a night?"

"Yeah," Heath agreed again.

They stood to go. Nick threw some money on the bar, and Heath kept his eyes on the room. Halfway to the door, a big man, dressed like a miner, stood up from his chair and slammed into Heath's right shoulder, knocking him nearly off his feet.

Heath caught himself on one of the tables, apologizing to the patrons seated there as he regained his balance.

Nick had immediately interposed himself between the miner and his brother, who, Nick could clearly see, was in considerable pain and was doing his level best to hide it. He waited, unmoving, until he heard Heath come up next to him, and they continued toward the door.

The miner's hand shot out and grabbed Heath by the front of his shirt.

"Ain't you gonna say excuse me - _mutt_?"

Heath went very still. He looked first at Nick, then at the hand fisted in his shirt, then back up at the miner. "Excuse me," he said, his tone benign, his eyes lethal. There was a silence. Then the miner blinked.

"Well - - _good_." He let go and promptly sat down, figuring he'd done enough for the night standing up for the honor of his town, or at least the honor of his favorite saloon.

The brothers made a quick exit. "God- _damn_ , son. No wonder you do so well at poker." Nick kept looking over his shoulder as they walked away.

"Helps to have my big brother starin' 'em down first, no doubt." Once clear of the bar, Heath had stuck his right hand inside his shirt as a make shift sling, and was holding his right elbow with his left hand. He swore under his breath, trying to get comfortable. His arm was burning and tingling like it was covered with fireants. He wouldn't have been able to draw on that miner even if he'd wanted to.

"Yo, Barkleys!" came a familiar voice.

"Hey, Mikey."

Mike pulled his wagon to a stop. "I clearly haven't yet been able to enlighten this entire city as to your excellent character, so I'd suggest you both get your things and come stay at my place. I'm sure I have some whiskey at home that's at least as good as anything you'd pay too much for in town."


	137. Chapter 137

_"A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance, nor wish it to prevail through the power of the majority. There is but little virtue in the action of masses of men."_

 _Henry David Thoreau  
_ _On Civil Disobedience_

 _"What is hateful to thee, do not unto thy fellow; this is the whole law. All the rest is a commentary to this law; go and learn it."_

 _Rabbi Hillel (b. 110 BC.)  
_ _Shabat 31a, Babylonian Talmud_

 _Carson City Federal Offices, morning, Oct 2, 1874_

Mike rode Nick and Heath into town early. Artemis and Tommy insisted on coming along, though they were told in no uncertain terms that they would not be attending the legal proceedings.

"You have been given strict instructions to stay out of trouble, or your Mama will have my hide. You understand me? And if she has _my_ hide, believe me, I'll have yours. Share, share alike in this family." Mike scowled unconvincingly at the two, who were armed, as always, with bows and arrows.

They nodded and smiled affectionately back at him. "Yes, Papa."

Mike sighed. "You're going to find something to get into, I know it. Just be careful." He pulled the wagon to a halt behind the federal office building and turned to the two men. "Anton thought it might be easier on you to come in the back door. Fewer _interactions_ with the locals, is how he put it."

"I'm not gonna argue with that," Heath commented.

"I've got a few errands, I'll be back before you all get started in there."

"Thanks, Mike." Heath winked at the twins as he and Nick climbed down. "You two listen to your Papa now, y'hear?"

Ramos appeared in the doorway, looking stressed.

"Mornin', Marshal, here I am, as summoned." Heath's attempt to lighten the marshal's tense demeanor went nowhere. Glancing at Nick, he could see even his brother had sensed it. "Anton? Everything OK?"

"Glad you're here early. Come in the storeroom here first to lock up your guns - no weapons allowed in."

Nick and Heath surrendered their sidearms and followed Ramos out into the hall.

"The courtroom is down this way."

"Courtroom? I thought this was a deposition."

Ramos seemed reluctant to respond. "Wasn't enough space in the conference room," he finally mumbled, looking pained.

"Anton, what is it?" Heath put a hand on his arm, trying to get the marshal to face him. "What do you mean, not enough space?"

Ramos finally stopped and turned. "In the absence of a protective order entered by one side or the other, there are no restrictions on who may be present for a deposition," he recited, as if that explained everything.

"No restrictions," Nick echoed impatiently. "And -?"

Ramos looked over his shoulder down the hall. A murmur of voices could be heard. Many voices. "Courtroom's packed. So's the hallway, and the sidewalk."

Heath followed his gaze. "Friendly crowd, I reckon?" he joked, faintly, wiping his now sweaty palms on the front of his shirt. "Nick, you may not feel this way right now, but _I'm_ glad you're here."

Heath's attempt at a smile faded as he looked down the hall, and he tried to swallow in a throat that suddenly felt like dust. "Damn, Nick, I'm s-"

"Don't even think it, boy," Nick interrupted. "Wouldn't want to be anywhere else and you know it. Bring it on, I say." He gave Heath a solid whack on his good shoulder, grinning with a familiar combative light in his eyes. "Bring it on."

Heath took a deep breath, stood up a little straighter, and shook his head in bemusement, giving Nick a grateful glance. "OK," he said, returning the grin as best he could. "OK. You heard the man. Bring it on."

* * *

"Not go in the building? No way. No _way_ am I staying out here when those wolves are all howling after Uncle Heath. No way."

Tommy knew when his sister had her mind made up - and this time he agreed with her wholeheartedly. "They're gonna be in the courtroom. That makes it a little easier - there's that storage closet -" She nodded, their heads close together as they mapped out their options.

The two of them moved off to execute their plan to infiltrate the federal building.

* * *

Ramos led the way around the corner and into the lobby outside the federal courtroom. They had no clear path to reach the courtroom doors, and to Heath the restless crowd looked about as inviting - and as unpredictable - as a pack of hungry stray dogs, all of whom, it seemed, were staring at him. Struggling to at least appear calm, Heath followed Ramos into the press of people, trying not to listen to the growling and hissing invective that would intermittently pierce through the background murmur. Nick followed close behind him, keeping one hand lightly on his shoulder just to maintain the contact.

There was some jostling and pushing, and Ramos had to bark himself a few times to get the more belligerent spectators to back off. At one point, a two men managed to push past the marshal and land a few solid blows. Heath was doubled over by a punch to the stomach. Nick steadied him as he staggered. Bracing himself for another assault, Heath dearly wanted just to back away from the faces around him, and he thought for a moment he saw Jack leering at him from the crowd.

 _"We've got all night to get that arm off."_

Heath shuddered, and shook his head in an attempt to throw off that invading memory.

"Heath, y'alright? C'mon, stand up. I gotcha."

Setting his jaw, Heath pushed Jack out of his thoughts and focused instead on Nick's hand on his shoulder. He stood up. "Bring it on," he growled to himself, and kept moving forward.

The voices moved around and past him, and Heath suddenly came face to face with the woman who had beaten him with the ax handle that night in the rail yard. He had searched her eyes that night, wanting to understand. She had given him nothing; she had seemed as hard and impenetrable in her hatred as a stone gargoyle. Today, though - something had changed. She looked sad, fearful, even disgusted as she viewed the scene around her. Their eyes met, and something prompted him to smile at her in recognition. He knew the gesture was utterly absurd to the situation, and yet, just as absurd, she returned the smile. Fear and disgust fell from her face like a mask that had been discarded. He glanced back at her as he entered the courtroom. She was still standing there, a sad, thoughtful smile lingering on her lips.

Inside the courtroom, the scene was slightly more orderly, in that the spectators were required to keep to their seats. Ramos turned Heath over to the bailiff, while Nick took the only open chair he could spot in the middle of the room. Ramos went back out to the lobby to manage the throng there. The bailiff was a very large man, tall and broad. He took custody of Heath with an unpleasant enthusiasm, grabbing him by an arm and the back of his shirt collar and directing him to his seat. He pushed Heath down into a chair in the front row, looming over him with a stare that promised violence.

"You sit here until you're called, you understand me, mutt?"

Meeting that stare with a sinking feeling, Heath said, "I remember you."

"And _I_ remember _you_ digging your own grave, mutt. Like I said then, shoulda just buried you and got it over with, but Cap'n said no, so..." He winked and gave Heath a playful smack on the side of the head that was hard enough to make the room spin.

 _Oh hell._

Heath's thoughts were racing ahead, trying to figure out how to deal with this new threat.

 _There are only two people with firearms in this building. One's out doing crowd control, and one of them seems to be Risley's attack dog._

Heath turned in his seat, looking for Nick or Ramos, or even Mike. Seeing no one, he started to rise from his chair, intending to go find the marshal. He was swiftly halted in that attempt by the painful pressure of the bailiff's truncheon against his throat.

"I told you to sit until you're called." The bailiff now planted the butt of his truncheon in the middle of Heath's chest and pushed him back in his seat. Heath coughed and rubbed his throat, watching the bailiff closely. "I think you know what the warrant says, Barkley. I am an authorized god-damned law enforcement agent of this god-damned court, and I can use whatever god-damned force I see fit to _detain_ you until you have served your purpose in these proceedings. I will chain you to that chair. I will gag you. If I get to beat you senseless, or shoot you in the leg, all the better. The crowd would enjoy it. And then, as a bonus, I'd get to lock you up afterwards for contempt of court. Come to think of it - I'm hoping you _do_ act up. C'mon. Please. Give me a reason."

Heath put his hands up and shook his head. "No trouble from me." _What was it Nick was saying yesterday about how we'd be safe in this public court of law...?_

The bailiff snorted a laugh. "No trouble. Right." He stepped back up to his post. He straightened and threw a salute as Adam Risley entered the courtroom in handcuffs - these were immediately removed, and the guard escorts from the prison promptly left the room.

 _That seems strangely lenient for a man who's looking at a death penalty, even if he is representing himself._ Heath was rapidly losing count of all the things about this situation that were alarming.

Risley rose. "Is the court recorder ready?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Please swear in the witness, bailiff."

The bailiff directed Heath to the witness seat and swore him in on a bible. He then resumed his station to Heath's left, staring officiously out over the room.

Risley approached the chair, taking his time. "Mr. _Barkley_ ," he said, savoring the words like a fine piece of chocolate.

Heath couldn't see Nick or Ramos yet from where he was sitting. His eyes followed Risley as he walked a leisurely circuit around the witness chair, acutely aware that his heart was racing and his whole body was tense, braced for some terrible blow to fall. He knew Risley was purposely dragging this out, circling, keeping him trapped in this chair. The fear was turning every random sound around him into a lash from Risley's whip. It took a conscious effort for Heath not to visibly flinch every time Risley moved.

"Mr. Barkley. Can you please state what you confessed to me while you were incarcerated at Wellington, right after you so grievously injured that defenseless doctor?"

"I never injured Dr. Logan."

"Do you deny that you were the reason he was beaten? That had it not been for your actions, he would not have been injured?" The audience hummed slightly, anticipating condemnation, hungry for it. No matter that Risley's accusations made no sense.

Heath saw the AG come in and take his seat on the far side of the room. Buckner had told Heath yesterday that he would have opportunity to cross examine and redirect once Risley had completed his interview, but that the normal rules of objection and supervision by a judge didn't apply in this proceeding. He'd have to just sit and watch.

 _This is insane,_ Heath thought. _How do I get through an interrogation by a crazy man without bringing this bailiff's cudgel - or worse - down on my head?_ He stole a glance at the bailiff standing beside his chair, his sidearm within easy reach. The thought had crossed Heath's mind more than once to grab that gun and run for it.

"Could you restate the question?" he temporized. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I want you to state for the record what you confessed to me while you were in my custody in Wellington."

"Confessed to you?"

"Perhaps you don't remember clearly. I do. Word for word. Let me refer to my notes, and you can confirm or deny."

Risley opened the folder he held in his hand. "You said, and I quote, ' _Let my brother go. He's a good man, an honest man, he's not like me. You have me, do what you see fit with me, I deserve whatever you decide. But please don't make my brother suffer for my sins. He is not a criminal. This is a good family. I am his father's bastard son. They will be better off without me. They will accept your judgement of me.'_ Are these your words? Yes or no."

"I -"

"Yes or no? It's a simple question."

"I'm not - I'm not sure -" Hearing those words had plunged Heath abruptly back into the pain and utter desperation of that moment. He was off-balance already, and Risley knew it. He struggled to get back on his guard.

"You didn't want your brother to suffer for your sins. Your sins, Barkley? Can you be more specific, please, for the record?"

"I said whatever I thought would convince you to let my brother go. It doesn't mean anything. I would've said anything to -"

"So you are _not_ an honest man. _That_ statement appears to be true."

"Do you want to share with the court what _you_ were doing at the time I said those things, Risley?" Heath felt his anger rising, which at least was better than abject fear.

"What I was doing? To you? I was taking you apart piece by piece with a bull whip, Barkley. No secret there. I was using a conventional, highly effective method to _correct_ and _control_ a homicidal prisoner - namely, you - who had just assaulted our prison doctor. The statements prisoners make when receiving such discipline are, most would agree, as truthful as any they make in their dissolute lives." He directed this last to the audience, which murmured agreement.

"Given that, let's move on to other parts of your statement. _Do what you see fit with me,_ _I deserve whatever you decide._ That is not an ambiguous statement, Mr. Barkley, and I agree with you wholeheartedly. I will do what I see fit with you. As for your family: yes, they _will_ be better off without you. And they will accept my judgement of you, because they will have no choice." Risley leaned down by Heath's ear, and whispered too low for the scribe to hear. "I'm going to give _them_ what I decide. _All_ of them. What they deserve. Including the Jew girl."

Heath's hands were fisted in his lap. He was breathing hard, and he scowled at the floor, forcing himself to calm down, forbidding himself to react.

The whisper continued, "Go on. Grab that gun. Show these folks what you're really made of."

"No," Heath gritted out, feeling his heart pounding in his head. He spotted Ramos, patrolling the aisles. He could now also see Nick, who was clearly worried but not yet understanding what was happening. " _No_. Don't have to. You're gonna hang, Risley. You're done."

"No, no, I'm not done. Not done with _you_ , 597." Standing behind the chair now, Risley's hand came down hard on Heath's injured shoulder, his fingers digging into the fractured clavicle. As Heath reflexively tried to pull away, he felt the barrel of the bailiff's pistol as Risley pressed it against his head. He froze, breaking into a sweat as the fire that had been reignited in his right arm began rapidly to build. The sound of the gun being cocked was absurdly loud by his left ear. "Bailiff, please disarm Marshal Ramos and then lock the doors."

As the bailiff executed his orders, Risley continued to converse companionably with his hostage. "I was hoping you'd take the bait, Barkley, I really was, though I wasn't sure what would have been better, you going to prison - and the gallows - or being shot dead here in the courtroom by your friend Marshal Ramos. That would have been excellent, especially if your whole family had been here to watch. No matter. If I can get out of here with you as my ticket, that's acceptable too. I can come after the rest of your family at some other time."

Heath was barely hearing what Risley was saying. His whole universe had suddenly narrowed down to the blazing coal fire that had been his right arm, the gun barrel pressed to his head, and the humming of the hungry, watching crowd.

Risley was speaking to that crowd now, enjoying the large audience he now commanded. "Neighbors - citizens. The fact that you are here today speaks to your commitment to the rule of law in your community. I am deeply grateful for your presence. Yes, I am a defendant in this trial, but I am here to say to you, what happens to me doesn't matter. I broke the law, yes, in the foolish pursuit of profit, the third-oldest motive known to man. But how I ran my prison? What I did to this man who was rightly incarcerated there? Understand me - what I did to _this_ creature, I did to control and subdue a vicious, ill-bred, self-confessed criminal who has _proven_ himself to be a lethal threat to me and my staff, and to the decent citizens of this valley.

"You heard his words, did you not? _Do what you see fit with me. I deserve whatever you decide._ I believe in his heart, he himself knows what justice should be. No matter what happens to me, friends, I will see justice done for the people of this city. For you, the majority. You have reached your verdict, have you not? You want me to put him to death."

The crowd buzzed, hummed, approved. The hand gripping his shoulder tightened. _Fire_. Heath wanted to scream from the pain. He fought to remain silent, but couldn't quite manage it. Risley smiled at that.

 _Dear God, if this keeps up I'm pretty soon gonna be wishing for him to pull that trigger._

Heath knew he was losing any ability to think clearly. _What is Risley doing? Trying to escape, or just looking for an audience for my execution?_

"Marshal Ramos!" Risley barked, his air of command now amplified by the approval of the crowd. "Marshal, come up here and handcuff this prisoner, please. Your cooperation, please, Marshal. Now, or I will have the bailiff shoot you."

Ramos walked, glowering, up to the witness chair. Heath met his eyes as best he could, panting, his teeth clenched. Tried, nonetheless, to reassure the young lawman.

"Anton, just - just do what he says. It's OK."

" _Dammit_ , Heath -" He looked distraught.

"Get on with it, please, Marshal," Risley ordered.

"These cuffs were John Smith's," Ramos said to Heath, looking at him intently. "Didn't think I'd have to use them like that on you again."

"Me neither," Heath answered.

Ramos cuffed Heath's hands behind his back, and then, glaring at Risley, he stepped away as instructed. Risley pushed Heath forward to the center of the low stage that fronted the courtroom. "On your knees, mutt." Now that Heath was kneeling and restrained, Risley had released the grip on his shoulder. The agony receded in increments, enough to allow some room in his brain for rational thought. Heath looked out at the room and wondered if these people would actually let this happen. It was a sad thought.

"Bailiff, bring Mr. Buckner over, please. Seat him right here. I think, in deference to the obvious preference of our assembled citizens, we shall execute Mr. Barkley right here and now. Mr. Buckner can then accompany us on our way out of town. He'll be a much more manageable travel companion, and just as useful as a deterrent to pursuit." Satisfied with his decisions, Risley turned ceremoniously to stand just behind Heath, and lifted the pistol to his head. Buckner started to protest, but was silenced by the handgun the bailiff pointed at his face.

Heath could see Nick standing in the middle of the crowd, hemmed in, no clear route to reach him without being shot by the bailiff. Mikey was standing as well, up in the gallery, no way to get into the courtroom itself. As he looked around at the faces, Heath could now see that this was not the unified blood-thirsty mob he had thought it was. There certainly seemed to be enough of one present to make this execution a real possibility, but just as many of those watching seemed to be afraid, upset, though unable or unwilling to change what was happening. _They might not all be on board with this, but I don't see any help out there, either_ , Heath thought. _I'd better get ready to move and hope for the best, 'cause ain't no way I'm letting Risley put a bullet in my head without a fight._

And as he got himself ready, there suddenly came a burst of movement from an utterly unexpected direction.

Rising up from the crawl space below the dais, two red-haired warriors appeared before the stage as if by magic, bows drawn and arrows trained on their targets. Tommy immediately let his first arrow fly, striking his mark. The bailiff stumbled backward, dropping his weapon, a feathered shaft protruding from his right chest. He sat down hard on the ground, weeping and scooting himself as far away from combatants as he could.

Risley, however, had taken cover behind his hostage. Now he pulled Heath to his feet, shielding himself and wrenching the injured shoulder again to ensure Heath's compliance. He started to back toward the door.

Artemis followed, her arrow unwavering and aimed at Risley's head. "Let him go," she commanded.

"Go to hell," Risley answered.

He retreated, she advanced. The crowd was hushed. Birdsong drifted incongruously in through the open windows of the gallery. A few words and phrases could be heard around the room.

"She's just a child -"

"- it's stupid, she can't hold that bow drawn long enough to wait him out -"

"- a little girl -"

"Let him go," she repeated, "or I will kill you."

Tommy came to stand behind her, another arrow at the ready.

"Artemis," Heath said, softly, "Don't kill him. Please. I'd rather die than have you do this."

"Sorry, Uncle Heath. That's not a fair trade, not by a long shot."

Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared slightly as she took a slow breath in. "Last chance. Let him go."

Risley broke. _Who does this uppity brat think she is,_ he thought, and he pointed the gun at her.

Heath was certain he heard a collective gasp of horror from the audience - and he prayed that he and Anton had understood each other correctly when those handcuffs went on. He twisted his hands free of the irons, and reached - with his left hand at least - for the gun.

Artemis did not flinch. She respected her Uncle Heath, though, and so she made a decision not to shoot to kill. She loosed her arrow and watched as it buried itself in Risley's left shoulder.

In the same moment, Heath's hand closed over the six-shooter, the hammer snapping painfully onto his finger rather than the bullet in the chamber. He pulled it from Risley's hand. Risley fell back against the judge's bench and then slid down to sit on the floor.

Risley groaned and reached for the shaft, feeling the blood oozing onto his shirt.

Heath crouched in front of him, the gun in his hand. Slowly, meditatively, he pulled back the hammer and then held the gun to Risley's forehead, looking thoughtfully into his face.

"Don't do it, Uncle Heath."

Risley coughed, grimacing. "Oh, do it, Barkley. I'll be coming after you and yours for as long as I'm still breathing. You'd best kill me while you can."

"Please, Uncle Heath. Leave him be. You know that's what you'd tell me to do."

After a long moment, Heath nodded and released the hammer. Standing, he turned away from Risley, and kneeling down before the two children, he closed his eyes and hugged them until Nick and Mikey came to bring them all home.


	138. Chapter 138

_Jubilee, California, October, 1874_

Frank Sawyer leaned back in his chair, putting his boots up on the desk in the front room of the Marshal's Office. It was a quiet morning, the dust motes circling lazy in the horizontal morning sun, and he had some time to read the paper. He took a long sip of the caustic, idiosyncratic brew that he called "coffee", though most of his friends, colleagues, and prisoners had far more colorful and descriptive names for the stuff. "Sawyer's Horse Liniment", for example, or "Rust-Remover", or other expletives that unsuspecting recipients of the beverage would spontaneously produce. Frank was on his second cup. He snapped open the paper.

 **Sacramento Daily Union**

 **Court Report and Editorial Reprinted From: Carson Daily Appeal 7 October 1874**

 **Murder and Corruption at Wellington Prison: Prosecution of Adam Risley Ends in Violence**

 **8 October, 1874**

 _Adam Risley, former warden of the prison and labor camp in Wellington, NV, was brought before Judge Walter Bentley in Federal Court this morning for arraignment on charges of assault, attempted murder, and attempted kidnapping, arising from his attempt last week to execute Mr. Heath Barkley (a witness during a public deposition), and then take as hostage Mr. Luther Buckner, the Nevada Attorney General, in order to escape. These charges upon Mr. Risley were in addition to the multiple counts of first degree murder, kidnapping, corruption, perjury, human trafficking, and bribery with which he has already been charged and for which he was to stand trial in 2 days. The events which occurred this morning I will describe as an eye witness, having been present in the courtroom at the time._

 _At the conclusion of this morning's arraignment - which was brief, there being many witnesses to the events at the deposition - Mr. Risley - who has been acting as his own attorney - resisted his removal from the courtroom. He began loudly to harangue the judge, the Attorney General, and the assembled citizens as to their inadequacy in carrying out the desires of the "decent citizenry", and refused to acknowledge the moral right of the court to pass judgement upon himself._

 _At this juncture, Judge Bentley again ordered the guard officers present to restrain and remove Mr. Risley. Mr. Risley resisted again, and seized a sidearm from one of the guards. He turned this weapon immediately upon Attorney General Buckner, firing several shots. Mr. Buckner was shielded and pushed to safety by Chief Deputy US Marshal Anton Ramos, who was wounded as result. The gravity of those wounds is not known at the time of this writing. Mr. Risley continued to shoot at Mr. Buckner, who returned fire using the weapon of the fallen marshal. Risley was struck 3 or 4 times, and was pronounced dead on the scene._

 _On a personal note: Having been present myself in the courtroom at both of Mr. Risley's recent displays of violence and invective, my impression is that the general mood is one of relief at the fatal outcome of today's events, Marshal Ramos' injuries notwithstanding. Our thoughts and prayers are with the marshal. Mr. Buckner was unharmed, but appeared somewhat stunned by the attack and his quite justified lethal response. He declined to be interviewed by me, and remained with Marshal Ramos, going with him to the hospital._

 _Mr. Risley's malignant rhetoric was compelling to many of our citizens, myself included, who were eager to demonize and scapegoat Mr. Barkley as an ill-born, violent danger to our community, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Similarly, Mr. Matthew Brown (now known to be Matthew Bentell of Carterson Prison notoriety) also found a broad and receptive audience for his opinions and warnings regarding Barkley, that met little overt opposition, and fanned the flames of vigilantism. My own articles and editorials constituted a significant part of that campaign of condemnation, a fact of which I am not proud._

 _Some people - perhaps many - found the words and actions of these men disturbing, but did not speak up or act for fear of being demonized themselves. Thus we, as a people, so easily can arrive at such a dark moment, in which we stand by and let a man be murdered in plain view of a hundred "law-abiding folks"._

 _Even when Mr. Risley showed his eagerness to murder Mr. Barkley by means of extralegal execution - there in front of the judge's bench - he claimed to be acting under the color of the law and justified by majority opinion. And still there was no cry of resistance from the crowd. Resistance came in the form of two 9-year-old children, who stepped fearlessly to the defense of a man they love as an uncle. Risley raised his weapon to murder the little girl, an act universally abhorrent to those who witnessed it. Risley was in the end thwarted in his homicide, and subdued, not by the assembled citizens, but by the child herself, and by the man we were willing to allow Risley to put to death._

 _And what of that man, the illegitimate Barkley son, the crazed ex-soldier, the "Leviathan Killer" we so feared and reviled? He held a gun to Mr. Risley's head, and I believe each of us present fully expected - even hoped - that Heath Barkley would kill him then and there. How many of us can honestly say we wouldn't have pulled the trigger, if, God forbid, we were in Barkley's shoes? Yet he chose not to kill Risley, just as he chose not to at Leviathan, and I believe Heath Barkley showed himself to be a braver and more civilized individual than any at the courthouse that day._

 _I recount these moments with regret, and shame, and a heavy heart, but also with hope for a more honorable future. John Stuart Mill said, "_ _A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury." I myself will be giving much thought to my own actions and inaction, in all walks of life, in hopes that I will live more in accordance with my ideals, and thus learn truly to love my neighbor as myself._

"You _better_ feel regret and shame," Frank muttered to himself as he headed over to the telegraph office. "Damn straight. Regret and shame in _spades,_ and maybe a few bouts of kidney stones for good measure." The death of Risley was the first good news Frank had seen in the paper for a long time, no tears there, but he needed to send off a wire up to Carson City just to check on Luther - Sawyer was 100% sure Luther had never fired a gun at a person before - and he wanted news of how Anton was doing. He hoped the marshal wasn't hurt too badly.

 _Nevada State Prison, October, 1874_

"Just be careful, Matthew. Keep your gloves on. Once they cooked, they be fine to handle, and wait till you see how good they taste."

"If you say so, Cho." Matthew Bentell, former commander of Carterson Prison, now confessed and convicted felon serving several consecutive life sentences in the Nevada State Prison, carefully lifted the pile of stinging nettles and carried them at arm's length to a waiting pot on the stove.

"And do not lose track of the rice boiling. The beans can simmer on their own, but the rice boils over and will make a mess."

"Right."

"I will be back in a few minutes."

"You sure you don't want me to go pick up those supplies? They're heavy, and with all this cooking -"

"You need to learn how to manage this," Cho said, his hand waving broadly over the several steaming pots of food. "I get help to lift the heavy bags." Bentell followed his gesture with his eyes, looking worried. "Don't worry, Matthew. Will be fine." The old man gave him a quick smile and left the cookhouse.

Bentell watched him go, then turned back to the stove, his movement still stiff and slow from the last beating that had put him in the hospital. Facing the array of pots, he instructed himself to focus on the greens and the rice. Cho had commented to him that cooking was a good way to practice seeing and paying attention to what's important.

 _Seeing what's important. Now there's a deceptively simple task._

He stirred the rice, wondering over the little moments of stillness and calm that he kept stumbling across as he went through his days in the cookhouse. Like a smooth river rock he could roll in his hand, the moments seemed real and stable and self-contained. He was coming to see these were the moments he was free of himself, free of the yammering want and need and fear and envy and anger that filled his head most of the time. Stirring the rice, sometimes, he could find that quiet place.

As Buckner had heard, Bentell had gone to pieces they day the young prison guards took him through the chute to become an inmate. Had gone completely to pieces, spread out all over the floor, many of the fragments crushed into dust and irretrievable. But that was the point when he first noticed the silence. Facing the stony place in which he would spend the rest of his days, Bentell felt something like freedom, for a second.

He'd had a prison gauntlet to run, being who he was. He was beaten near to death twice, but the physical injury paled in comparison to the pain of sifting through the shards of what he'd done with his life, seeing the choices he'd made in the service of hate and envy, fear and anger. He made them sovereign over him, and in their service he had made of his life a plague. He let those tyrants talk him into leaving his employment with the Barkleys, even though Heath had offered him the first honest chance he'd had to redeem himself. Soon after, his wife passed away, taking with her his only relationship of mutual care and compromise. Bentell moved on with only the tyrants for company and guidance, on a path that had led him to commit crimes almost as heinous as those of Carterson.

The second time his fellow inmates put him in the hospital, Bentell asked permission for two visitors. He wanted to see Heath Thomson, and Michael Peterson, the man Bentell now knew to be the prisoner he left to drown because his construction schedule, and putting Heath Thomson in his place, were more important to him than the man's life. Bentell could see that truth now, even say it out loud, but it was still very painful to look at.

As for Heath Thompson - Bentell was still struggling for words for what he had done to him, then and now. He tried to say some of it to the boy. The violence he had done had laid a burden of physical and mental trauma upon these men that he, Bentell, could not undo. Heath Thompson did not have a choice but to live with what Bentell had done, nor did Michael Peterson. Even so burdened, it was evident they went on to become kind, compassionate men. What Bentell could do, at least, was to acknowledge this. He would look upon it and live with it himself, without closing his eyes or defending himself. He didn't ask forgiveness.

Heath and Mike had listened, and when they left, of a wonder, they both wished him peace. Bentell overheard them later, outside, talking with Ramos. "Anton, you have to find some way. You can't keep sending him back if he's gonna just get beat up again, or maybe killed next time. Plus he needs some kind of work assignment where he can heal up - I can tell you from experience, it's bad enough there being young and beat up. He's _old_ and beat up. How about assigning him to Cho?"

Bentell was not surprised that the two men, rather than killing him on sight, asked mercy for him. There was a time he would have seen that forbearance as a weakness. No longer. And so Bentell came to work in the cookhouse, with Cho, who was kind, and practical, and could see something possible in a man who had done terrible things and who had gone to pieces. Cho understood that moments of peace can be found in stirring rice and filling the plates of one's fellow prisoners.

Along the way, Bentell also came to know Michael's brother, Tom. Tom had some feelings about the man that tried to kill his little brother, some very strong feelings. He let Bentell know right off what he remembered: the defeated camp commander, bent on homicide, fighting to get into the solitary block with a shotgun in his hand to put his brother to death. Bentell remembered it with him. But Tom also was serving his sentence, and had plenty of blood on his own hands. Unlike Bentell, he hadn't required the utter destruction of his world to change the path he was traveling. But Tom was still learning his own hard lessons over this terrible, remarkable summer, about the cost of living with one's eyes closed, and about guilt, and redemption, and forgiveness. The two men fell into the habit of taking their morning coffee together. They would talk honestly, and try to remember honestly. And in this manner, they slowly whittled away at the problem of meeting each day with their respective burden of sin.


	139. Chapter 139

_Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape._

 _Charles Dickens_

 _Great Expectations_

 _Carson City, Nevada, afternoon, October 2, 1874_

"Hop in, my young heroes, time to go home." Mike watched Tommy and Artemis climb up and get settled in the back of his wagon. His face, usually cheerful and expressive, still bore the shadows of the helpless terror he had felt as he watched his two children step into battle with a monster. He still felt that he could barely breathe, his chest full as it was with overwhelming relief and narrowly averted disaster.

He turned to Heath, who was attempting a show of good health as he leaned, or rather hunched, against a lamppost with both arms wrapped around his chest. Heath could see what Mike was feeling, and his distress for his friend was written all over his face. _If anything had happened to those kids - and because of me - -_ Heath started to speak.

Mike walked to him. "Don't even say it, Heath. I know you'd walk into cannon fire before you'd let those kids be hurt. This little episode is gonna give me some nightmares, but it ain't your fault. Give you some too, most likely." He ruffled Heath's hair, knowing it would annoy him out of his brooding, if only for a moment. "We'll compare notes in the morning. Oh, hey, sorry, Sarge," he said, as Heath tried unsuccessfully to duck. "Didn't mean no disrespect, sir."

Heath laughed. "I bet you didn't. Thanks, Mikey."

"Now, quit pretending you ain't in a world of pain and let your brothers take care of you. I'll see you at the house later."

 _A world of pain. Yup, that is just about how I'm feeling right now._ Heath tried to straighten up to wave goodbye to the departing wagon. The pain in his right arm was steadily building in a way that was scaring the hell out of him. He reluctantly glanced down at his right hand, vainly hoping that the pallid, dusky colors of death he had seen there earlier had somehow been banished. No such luck. It seemed the Prince of Darkness was back, flags flying, and he intended to dig in and prepare for battle.

Heath could see Nick across the street, talking with Ramos. He considered walking over there, now also uncomfortably aware that he was standing alone in the unsettled crowd of people that still lingered around the courthouse. _I can walk that far. C'mon, boy, worst that'll happen is you'll bite the dust in the middle of the road._ Pushing himself upright, he paused. "Did Mike say brothers..?" He smiled, as the scent of cigars and soap came to him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Jarrod."

"What the hell happened?" Jarrod turned Heath to face him, looking him anxiously up and down. "Where's Nick?"

"He's over there - we're OK, Jarrod. But what the devil happened to you?" Heath was realizing that his normally well-groomed brother was filthy, covered from head to toe in trail dust.

"Picked up a horse in Reno and rode here. Didn't want to wait. What happened with the deposition?" Jarrod had started to notice the crowd. There was nothing overtly threatening, but it was clear many eyes were on Heath, and a feeling of menace seemed to hang in the air around them. Frowning, worried, he turned back to his younger brother, becoming more alarmed when he realized that his hold on him was a big part of what was keeping Heath on his feet. "Heath. You don't look good. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Can fill you in on the details later - took a few punches, nothin' big. But then Risley got a hold of this arm and it's - it's -" Heath glanced down at his hand again. His fingers were burning, his palm becoming a red hot coal. A thought blazed abruptly into his mind in that moment, spoken in the voice of the Prince of Darkness.

 _At_ _least this time, Heath, you've got your own gun, if it gets that bad._

With an effort, he pushed that unhelpful reminder aside, and tried to answer Jarrod. "It's bad," he managed, past clenched teeth.

Much as he didn't want to draw any extra attention, Jarrod called across the street. "Nick!"

Nick waved and came over immediately, bidding Ramos goodbye with a casual pat on the back. "Jarrod! You decide to herd some cattle on your way back here? Wait'll you hear what that madman tried to do."

"I want to hear all about it, but we have to take care of this arm first, Nick. It looks terrible."

"What? Heath, why the hell didn't you say something?" He tried to move the arm slightly to get a better look, but stopped when Heath cried out, his knees starting to buckle. "OK, OK, sit down, let me think." They helped Heath sit on the edge of the raised sidewalk, and Nick crouched in front of him, scowling in thought. He had an idea forming, though it was hard to concentrate, when he could see his brother's eyes going blank with pain. He wondered briefly how Rivka managed it, doing her job in the face of such suffering. He stared at the place where she had operated, pulling the broken bone outward to take the pressure off the blood flow and nerves underneath. The bones now didn't look as smashed out of place as they did before - so maybe it wouldn't take as much to get the pressure off again? "Heath, I'm gonna try something, OK? It might hurt. But I'm hoping it'll help."

Heath nodded. "Go - go ahead, Nick."

Nick wrapped his right arm around his brother, bracing his back, the put the heel of his hand on the front of his right shoulder, pushing the shoulder back with a strong, steady pressure. He could feel the resistance of all of the muscles in spasm around the joint. Heath was groaning in pain, but fighting like hell not to resist, because he could feel it was moving in the right direction. His tried to force his right arm to relax, while his left hand had a death grip on the back of Nick's leather vest.

"Heath..?" Jarrod was watching Heath's face.

"OK, 's'OK -" he choked out. He could feel blood returning to his hand, bringing its own version of agony. Nick backed off slowly, but as he did, Heath could feel the pressure coming back. He tried to catch his breath. "Nick, it was helping, I could tell, but it's not staying -"

"So we need to find a way to keep it there -" Nick stared at Heath, then stood and spun in a circle, searching the shopfronts for - "There. That'll have what we need. C'mon."

Pulling Heath to his feet, Nick shepherded him and Jarrod a few doors down and into a dressmaker's shop. The three of them burst into the tidy, feminine establishment with a cloud of dust and a crazed jingling of the bell over the door.

Two older women, also very tidy and feminine, looked at the men with disapproval. Disapproval turned rapidly to horror upon seeing it was the Barkley bastard who had invaded their establishment.

" _He_ is not welcome here," one said officiously.

Nick cared not at all that they were not welcome. "I need a length of cloth, about 7 yards, something flexible, not flimsy. Muslin, maybe? Or just plain cotton?" Nick was unclear on what the difference was. Jarrod helped Heath to sit on one of the puffy pink chairs near the fitting room.

"I said, he is not welcome here. And neither are you. Please leave, or I will call the sheriff."

"Ma'am," said Jarrod, aware that his filthy appearance was not helping his attempt to cajole these hostile women, "we just need to make a purchase. It's urgent. Then we'll be on our way. You can charge extra, for the inconvenience and dust."

"Out. Now."

Heath wanted to help somehow, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do but hug his arm into his body and rock in that pink puffy chair with his eyes squeezed shut, keening like an animal caught in a steel trap.

A door behind the counter opened, and another woman entered. "What is going on out here?"

"These men with their mongrel brother refuse to leave. I'm going to call the sheriff."

Heath could hear her surprised intake of breath. He expected more shock and horror to follow, and screams for help.

"Aunt Liza, Aunt Bea, you're being ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. This man is no threat to you or anyone else. If you find him so upsetting, well, you can just go on home and take a nap or something till you feel better. Well?"

"We'll just wait in back," Bea said.

"Fine. Mr. Barkley, you said you need a length of cotton fabric?"

"Ah, yes ma'am, you see -" he went onto explain what he planned.

With Jarrod's help, Nick again pushed the shoulder back into a better position, slowly, the contracted, angry muscles fighting back every step of the way. Heath held onto to his brothers, weeping with the pain as he hid his face on Nick's shoulder. He tried not to scream, but he couldn't help it. Each time Nick would ask him if he should stop, and Heath would shake his head no, tell him to keep on. Then, using the long, wide strips of cotton, Nick proceeded to splint the shoulder in place by wrapping it in a figure-of-eight, from one shoulder, across his upper back, to the other shoulder.

When Nick was done, he and Jarrod let go, and watched to see what would happen. Heath sat, sweating. He took a wobbly breath and opened his eyes to look down at his right hand. He felt his wrist as he had seen Rivka do, and could feel a pulse there, rapid but strong. The aching bone-deep pain of the recovery was ramping up, and he expected he'd be miserable with that for a while, but he could feel his arm getting back to normal already. He could move all his fingers and make a fist. "So far so good, Nick. Wow."

He looked up to smile at his brothers, and then saw the dressmaker for the first time. Surprised, he smiled in recognition. "Thank you for your help, ma'am. Nice to see you again. Small world, ain't it?"

She returned the smile, though her eyes were sad. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Barkley. Yes, it is a small world. I'm so glad I could do something -" She appeared for a moment on the verge of tears. "- something to assist. It seemed the least I could do."

Nick and Jarrod listened to this exchange with utter confusion. "You two know each other?"

"Now we do, maybe," Heath said. "What's your name?"

"Judith."

"And how do you know my brother?" Jarrod asked.

"A while back, I thought I knew who your brother was, _what_ he was, what he was guilty of, and what terrible things he would do if he wasn't stopped."

Jarrod and Nick were both staring at her now, and Judith suddenly felt an urgent need to confess to them what she had been holding secretly in her heart. The words came tumbling out. "I thought I knew everything I needed to know about Heath Barkley. Some months ago, my husband took his two uncles - Bea and Liza's husbands - and our 12-year-old son Jesse on a supply trip to Reno. They were robbed and killed on the way by a lone gunman who shot them from ambush. My whole family gone, just like that, and they never caught the man. I didn't know if Heath Barkley was the man who did it, and I didn't care. I thought he might as well have been the killer, for everything they said and wrote about him. And if he wasn't, I thought, he'd probably _would_ do it to some other family someday if he wasn't hunted down and stopped.

"I kept asking myself, what kind of a monster could just kill like that, just kill someone not doing you any harm, someone you don't know anything about, just to get something you want?" She began to sob. "Well I _know_ what kind of monster can do that.

"I tried to beat your brother to death with an ax handle when he and that marshal were trapped in the rail yard coming back into town."

Shocked, Nick and Jarrod looked from her to their brother. Heath nodded, wincing slightly as the memory came to him. He kept silent, watching her gravely. She turned to him, tears on her face.

"I tried to kill you. I knew - I _knew_ you wanted to understand, that you wanted to see me, even when I was trying to kill you. I wouldn't let you. I wanted you to be alone, abandoned, as I was. The only face I wanted you to see was my righteous anger.

"Yes, I learned then what kind of monster. The robber killed for money. I tried to kill to make myself feel better, to ease my anger, because I couldn't bear the loss and the feeling so helpless. That day at the courthouse," she said, looking at Heath now, "I saw how my friends and neighbors were behaving, how they were treating you. I realized I was no better than the man who killed my family - and maybe worse, because I had convinced myself that my hate made me righteous. I couldn't pretend anymore. _I_ was a monster, and I thought I should be exiled forever from any kind of fellowship or kindness.

"And then - in the courthouse - you smiled at me, even knowing what I had done, what you had every reason to believe I would do again. You saw me. It was as if _you_ remembered who I was, when I had forgotten. And that gave me hope that I could still - that I could still come home."

In the hush that followed, the storefront door jingled again, and Luther Buckner entered, looking relieved that he had found who he was looking for. "Ramos sent me to find you, give you a ride back out to Mike's place. He said someone saw you come in here, which seemed - unlikely -" He looked around the dainty store. "But here you are."

Heath kept his gaze on Judith. "I am sorry for your loss," he said to her.

"What's going on?" Luther asked, it being obvious that something difficult had been discussed.

Jarrod and Nick looked to Heath. Would he - should he - accuse her?

Heath saw the question in his brothers' eyes. He shook his head. _Let this one end here._ "Judith was just telling us about how her husband and son - and uncles - were killed a few months ago," Heath said, turning his eyes back to the shopkeeper. "Thank you for your help, ma'am. We'll be heading out now, let you get your shop back in order. We're all very sorry for your loss. No one should have to face that kind of tragedy."


	140. Chapter 140

_(Passages from "River" by Ralph Waldo Emerson)_

 _Stockton, California, dawn, late November, 1874_

 _And I behold once more_

 _My old familiar haunts;_

 _Here the blue river,_

 _The same blue wonder that my infant eye_

 _Admired_

 _Where overhead the ancient crows_

 _Hold their sour conversation in the sky_

The river flowed brisk and shallow under the narrow wooden bridge, her song more treble in pitch now that winter was approaching, and the snows were clinging more fondly to the upper slopes of the Sierras. Heath paused, as he often did on this crossing, it being a beautiful spot, and the very place he first laid eyes on his brother Nick. Then, it had been spring, and the river had been deep and full, a rolling tenor with a baritone harmony.

 _They are the same, but I am not the same,_

 _But wiser than I was, and wise enough not to regret the changes,_

 _Tho' they cost me many a sigh_

It was barely sunrise, on what promised to be a clear November day. The full moon was translucent, fragmented, a pale stained-glass window sinking behind the woods to his west. He took in the sight, listening to the flow of the water, absently stroking Charger's neck.

 _These trees and stones are audible to me,_

 _These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,_

 _I understand their faery syllables,_

 _And all their sad significance_

In his saddle scabbard, rather than his usual Winchester, was an unstrung longbow and a quiver of arrows. Some of the hands had taken to teasing Heath that he had gone native over the summer - though they were starting to be impressed with his developing skill. Heath leaned on the horn of his saddle, moving to ease some of the persistent pain and stiffness that still made climbing out of bed in the morning a bit of a challenge. He thought back to the September moon, the Nevada moon he had believed was his last. It certainly would have been, were it not for his family, his friends, his love.

 _I feel as I were welcome to these trees_

 _After long months of weary wandering,_

 _Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;_

 _They know me as their son..._

 _And soon may give my dust their funeral shade._

Heath had traveled home with his brothers about a week after the deposition fiasco. All three had stayed out at the Peterson place for the few days before they left, where Helena had happily set them up to bunk in the barn.

Over those days, Heath rested, ate, and recovered, Nick made arrangements to bring the bull and the quarter horse back to Stockton, and Jarrod cleaned up what was left of their legal affairs in Carson City. Two trails seemed to wind to an end for Heath during the week. One trail concluded in the violent death of Adam Risley, and one seemed to end in the hospital room of Matthew Bentell.

Heath felt relief at Risley's death, to be sure, because Risley seemed utterly committed to remaining a threat to him and his family for as long as he was breathing. Heath didn't spend any time dwelling on that, though, as they were all focused on Anton Ramos, who had taken a bullet to his leg while protecting the AG. Fortunately, the wound was not mortal, and Ramos seemed to be recovering well. Heath and his brothers were preparing to go home, and Risley, in many ways, was forgotten as soon as he was dead, and was missed by no one.

As for Bentell, neither Heath nor Mike knew what to expect when they heard that he was asking to see them. The old man had been beaten pretty badly for a second time, and was recovering from broken ribs and a broken jaw, and several broken fingers. As they listened to him speak of what he had done, Heath remembered back to the November day 10 years before, when he first saw Bentell, looking down from the bell tower on the dying prisoners of Carterson. Heath and his comrades were living side-by-side with death every day. Intimate as they were with death, they held even closer to their connection with each other. Back then, in his isolation, Bentell seemed to Heath to be dying a different kind of death, a withering and shrinking of the soul. Heath was struck by the fact that lying in that hospital bed, broken in body and mind, for the first time, Bentell seemed to be coming alive.

During the week in Carson City, they received a few telegrams and news from home. Rivka wrote letting Heath know that she could hold off on starting in San Francisco until later in the month, that she would wait in Stockton until the brothers got home, and stating in no uncertain terms that under NO circumstances was Heath to get on a horse. Under No Circumstances. No Riding. At ALL.

So Heath had to content himself with giving Tommy and Artemis riding lessons. Nick and Jarrod both got to ride the mare, when the three of them decided to take her into the pasture with the bull to get an idea how cowy she might be. The consensus was that she just might be a fine cutting horse. Heath watched her dance and dodge in front of the bull, turning the animal back almost before the bull himself knew which way he was trying to go. Resting his chin on his arms as he leaned on the top rail, Heath wore a look of such puppy-dog yearning on his face that his brothers were almost tempted to disobey Rivka and let him mount up. Almost.

Heath wasn't allowed to ride, but that didn't stop his 9-year-old drill sergeant from riding _him_ , and by the time the brothers left for home, Heath had made that climb up the north ridge several times.

"You need a minute to catch your breath?"

 _Lord, yes I do, I do._ "Keep on, girl. Why're you movin' so slow?"

She laughed at him. "Almost there. This is my favorite spot for target practice."

Taking the time to string the bows and set up a few targets - a bunch of pine cones here, a pile of deadwood there - Heath got a much-needed chance to get his wind back after the demanding climb. She pushed him, no joke, and he was feeling every bit of it. He knew he'd be glad for it in the long run. In his usual state of health, this climb - and this longbow - would be easy for him. He wanted that back. He needed that back. Chasing this fleet-footed redhead up a mountain seemed a good place to start getting that back.

Archery was not a skill he had ever mastered, but according to Artemis, he was a marksman, and therefore his skill would carry over to her choice of weapon. She also intuitively understood that the focus on a target would help him keep his mind off the pain as his arm got stronger.

"You know how to do this part, Uncle Heath. Breathe. Just use the muscles you need, relax the muscles you don't need. Breathe till you get centered on the target, then hold it - and then let it go. You'll know when."

 _Do what you know how to do, boy._

Suddenly, the image of his brothers kneeling at gunpoint in a fire-lit campsite pushed into his vision, obscuring the cluster of pine cones he was sighting on. He gasped, dropping his arms. Stepping back, he blinked and shook his head, his heart racing. He let his breath out slowly, carefully, waiting for the terrible vision to fade.

"What's wrong?"

"It's okay, huntress. Just bad memories. It's okay."

She watched the side of his face, thoughtful. "My Papa gets those sometimes. He doesn't much like crowds, and he doesn't like to go hunting with his friends." She leaned in and gave Heath a quick kiss on the cheek. Surprised, he looked at her sidelong, a questioning smile on his lips.

"No more bad memories now. Only pine cones," she instructed him, gravely, pointing at the target.

He nodded, lifting the bow. "Yes ma'am. Only pine cones."

There was a feeling that kept turning over in him, like a smooth river rock rolling in the current. When the waters were calm and clear enough he could see it in his mind. It would seem to him that all the pain and all the love in his life, the fearful things and the blessed things, the things that were lost and the things that were gained - they all seemed born of each other, intertwined and flowing together. He didn't try to put words to this nascent vision. It moved through him as a sense of balance, an awareness that in its time the river would flow just as it was meant to, and so would he.

Charger finally swung his head to look back at him and shook his bridle with some impatience. Heath was on his way to meet Rivka, who was coming by train from San Francisco to visit for Thanksgiving. Nike, tacked up and following on a lead line, agreed it was time to get moving, and nudged Charger with her nose.

"OK, OK, both of you, don't be getting pushy on this little bridge. We're going." Heath clucked the colt forward.

They came into Stockton at an easy canter, slowing to a walk as they approached the train station. Here and there, there were friendly greetings, some banter, a few calls of welcome home from people Heath hadn't seen since he'd been back. After his experience in Carson City, Stockton seemed like a utopia by contrast, his somewhat rocky history there notwithstanding. He pulled up at a trough to let the horses get a drink, and chatted with a few young cowboys who were admiring Nike.

Halfway down the block, Jarrod watched his younger brother ride into town from the window of his law offices. To his eye - his admittedly worried big-brother eye - Heath still looked a bit thin and drawn. He startled easily and did not sleep well. He was not yet moving with his usual grace - his strength and stamina was improving quickly, but the tension and vigilance was slower to let go. Jarrod would not complain, though. His brother - his whole family - was home safe, and he could see the joy that Heath felt as he moved through his life on their ranch.

At the rail station, Heath dismounted and loosened the cinches on both horses. A tall, attractive older woman stepped out of the station building to greet him warmly. He smiled easily at her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Winter. How are you?"

"Very well, Heath. And you? It is so good to see you back out and around and getting back to your usual work."

"Couldn't agree with you more, ma'am."

"John is coming day after tomorrow, staying through Thanksgiving. I know he'll be calling on Victoria." She smiled happily.

"I know she's looking forward to that. We all are."

Heath glanced up at the station clock and began to excuse himself to go wait for the train.

"Oh, wait, wait! That reminds me, I have something for you. Just wait, I won't be a minute." She hurried around to the yard behind the station master's house. She returned with a large colorful bouquet of fall blooms from her garden.

"This is beautiful."

"For you, to give to Rivka." She winked at Heath's obvious gratitude and gave him a quick hug. "Get along now, don't be late."

Heath ran up to the platform. There was no sign yet of the train, and so he took to pacing, careful of the bouquet, watching, waiting, wanting.

Finally, the train arrived in a familiar cacophony of squealing brakes, rhythmic machinery, and hissing steam. The platform was filling with people all travelling for the holiday or waiting for their loved ones to arrive. Heath walked up and down, looking for his girl. From somewhere behind him, he heard her call his name.

"Heath!"

The train had not yet rolled to a stop, but Rivka was leaning out one of the doors, holding on with one hand, smiling and waving to him.

Her smile was a luminous thing, like a bright silver full moon breaking through the clouds. And as always, it made Heath feel just a little like he was floating.

 _Oh, that smile._


End file.
